Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
by Minstrel of Ainur
Summary: The sharpest sword will break against the hardest armour - A tale of Lothíriel & Éomer: When two unlike souls meet - how hard will they clash? The long over due Chapter 30 is up!
1. of Harmed and Salves

**All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.**

**Éomer's appearance is based on the portrait by New Zealand actor Karl Urban as in Jackson's LOTR Trilogy**

**My first attempt at crafting a tale of Éomer Éadig of Rohan and Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Story may contain angst, adult content (including description of human parts or animal parts), violence and use of foul languages. Elements of MMORPG LOTRO are also evident in the story. And do remember that English is actually my third or fourth language so there will be puntuation and grammatical mistakes.  
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**Based on post War of the Ring, so this is an AU.**

**A few things you should know about this fanfic:**

****Éomer** is not a Disney prince charming. He is rude, violent and he curses. He does not hold back his temper.**** He would kill even if the enemy is a woman. If you want a Mr Perfect Romance, this fanfic is not your taste. Lothíriel**** is not an amenable person. She is imperfect with a very stubborn attitude and she is a woman, not a girl. Hence this is no girl/teen romance, not girlish admiration. There is no love at first sight between them. Their exchange is somewhat troublesome. There is hardly any sweet exchange of words, if you are expecting ****Éomer**** saying I love you and praises **Lothíriel** of her beauty, you are on the wrong page. **Lothíriel** knows horse-riding. It is not a virtue but I deem it as a basic skill that most people could ride an animal in Middle-earth (Come on, even orcs could ride wargs!). How would one travel if he/she could not mount? **There is a weakness in everyone. Crying does not mean you are weak. This applies to men too. Sexual desire is not a sin. But doing so by force and causing physical harms at the same time are.**  
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****No Mary-sues.  
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**********You have been warned!**********

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><p><strong>Summary of Chapters<strong>

**1-7: First meeting of **Éomer** and **Lothíriel and the friction that follows after  
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**8-12: Troubles from Dol Amroth and Imrahil's reaction  
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**13-18: Journey to Edoras and life in Rohan begins**

**19: The moment they both nearly lose it**

**20: The momentary separation**

**21: The rescue**

**22-23: Gamling is reunited with his wife  
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**24: ****Éomer****'s attempt at explaining the act of reproduction to a child  
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**25: The romance unfolds  
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**26: ****A little memory of ****Éomer**** and ****Éowyn********  
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**********27: When self-control slips silently  
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**********28: The days of separation and ****Éomer**** discovers another side of his future queen  
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**********29: Visit to Dol Amroth, Imrahil's interrogation and the long awaited proposal  
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**********30: ****Lothíriel****'s first attempt at defending her riders  
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><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>  
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**_Chapter 1: of Harmed and Salves _**

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><p>Ford of Isen<p>

End of March, 3020 T.A.

She struggled as she fell off the cliff and into the quick stream. The cold liquid with much pleasure began to invade her senses, drowning her. She held her breath. The desperate need for air grew dire and overthrew her will. A gust of air bubbled violently out of her mouth and nostril. Her fight against the invading liquid was revenged by the turbulent ciele of river water biting into her nose, flooding her throat and piercing into her lungs.

She choked.

She kicked her legs and swung her arms vigorously. She had little strength left. No food since the days ago, ten or eleven or more maybe, she could no longer remember.

With the very final piece of her strength, she tried to open her eyes in search for the forlorn hope. Then she saw a tiny strip of cloth streaming in the water, down it went. She wished that the message would have gone through before it was too late for her.

The very warmth of her blood seemed to fade from the inside. It must reach them. It must reach them before the abyss took her. Her vision blurred. Her thoughts drifted. Parchments of memories were dancing in front of her sea-grey eyes. The pieces of yesterdays still seemed vivid and fresh. She fought with her arms and legs but none in which she could find leverage. Her body continued to burn asking for need for air and she got none.

How she wished it could have ended differently but it was too late.

She could feel the root of her hair starting to grow numb. The devoid of sensation spread from her ears, creeping over her forehead. She let out a whisper then darkness engulfed her.

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><p>Fields of Pelennor<p>

15 March 3019 T.A.

She recalled it was 15 March 3019. No words could describe the hoof-dented fields now lined with bodies of fallen heroes, war creatures, splintered armor and weapons and corpses of friends and foes. So much was lost and yet a gloom hope it has brought.

She had been allowed by her father to be responsible for the household of Minas Tirith. Upon their arrival on 9th, she requested to be the head of the servants while her father and brothers busied themselves with army issues.

Once a glorious and proud The White City was, shambles that were left of Minas Tirith. An easy daily task, it seemed at Dol Amroth, now carried with too much of a great weight on her shoulders and heart. Hefty was her heart when she scanned across the tents of the wounded yet brave. Would they whom had fought against this great evil survive this night, she knew not. She was no healer, or herb-lore. Yet her task was to ensure not a single man was left untended and behind.

As she approached the dressers and chests of the healers, her slender fingers ran through the items within. Young she was and yet evidence of fatigue showered on her face and hands for no princess would have done what she had offered herself to. A decision that even now she had never regretted and only wished she had made that choice earlier.

She calculated and noted each item with attentive concern. Everything was running short, being it resources or one's energy. Her uncle did not prepare his city or his people for the peril of this war, let alone one that nearly consumed the hope of the people of Middle-earth. The healing salves and herbs were running low quickly. She had urged and warned the healers to use them wisely. As soon as she arrived in Minas Tirith with her father, brothers and their men, she had sent for more salves to be prepared and delivered from Dol Amroth but they might arrive too late for these injured men.

Just as she was going through the second chest, three blond men entered the tent. She smelled blood, sweat, horse and dirt of them as they passed her. They were conversing in a tongue that she did not understand. They were those Rohirrims, she assumed, who rode from Dunharrow to fulfil an old oath. An oath that they paid with a heavy price - the death of their king, Théoden King. Their armour looked worn from battle. Their faces were grimed. Clods and dried blood were all over their faces and hairs.

"Marshal Erkenbrand sent a message. There is no further attack in Rohan so far." Elfhelm led his new king around the tent.

"That is, indeed, good news." His king paused and said, "I will write him a letter personally to inform him the death of Dúnhere." Dúnhere was Marshal Erkenbrand's nephew. He fell in the battle today, like many other men, defending Middle-Earth and fulfilling the Oath of Eorl.

Gamling and Elfhem were addressing Éomer about the level of casualty they had suffered. Éomer surveyed his injured comrades those that were still conscious one by one. Too much he had lost today. His heart arched as one of the injured riders tried to stand himself up to greet his new king.

"Please stay and get some rest, my brother," he acknowledged the effort of the wounded soldier and he drew a close look at the man's leg. "It looks like you need more medicine?" He asked and could not help but frowned at the extent of injury his man had received. A deep cut across his thigh, so deep that he could see the white of his femur.

"My lord, please do not worry about me. Please rest yourself. You have done too much today." Replied the injured soldier.

"Please, Éomer King. Take some rest." Gamling was concerned that his young king was pushing himself too far. Éomer had lost his uncle today and almost his sister. Éowyn, was still weak even after she was blessed with the healing hands of Lord Aragorn.

"No, Gamling. I need to check all our men." Éomer gestured to Gamling to stop him from continuing. A stubborn head he was Éomer, Gamling already knew, refusing to take his leave to rest.

"We need more salves for our men," He continued to search around the bed but there was none. Then he turned his sight around and noticed two medicine chests opened and filled with a few jars of salves. He stood up and walked quickly over. Without a word, he grabbed two bottles. But before he could get back to his man, a hand grabbed his wrist. He turned his head back and saw a pale hand on his wrist and he followed it to meet the eyes of its owner. His intense green-hazel glare met with a pair of determined grey eyes.

"_Where_ do you think you are going with those two jars of healing salves?" She questioned his intent. Her voice was loud partly because she was taken by surprise and partly because the action was simply rude. Taking without permission is stealing. It was loud enough that the three other Rohirrims standing at the other corner could hear her.

It was a difficult task to make sure all resources were shared and used adequately but there were always some people who liked to make it harder for others, taking advantage during such unrest. One such as this blond man who snatched two jars of healing salves without even asking.

She looked upon a pair of eyes of intense green and amber. In them she saw the flame of fury flickered. She answered his glare with a raised eyebrow, demanding her question answered. She showed no intent to loosen her grip on his wrist. He frowned and snorted. "My men are in pain! I need these salves to ease their pain!" He was angry. Since when did one have to seek permission to soothe the pain of his men?

"Supplies are running low. And, you _cannot_ have them. Too much has already been wasted on negligent use." She loosened her grip but went on to retrieve the two jars from his hand and returned them to the medicine chest and continued her work. She did not show a slight interest to listen to him further.

"I will need some."

"May I _rephrase_ that you cannot have them!"

"Woman, I did not know what your role is here. But-" His ire was building up within. His brows drew even closer. His nostril flared and he could hear the volume of his voice rising.

"Healing salve will not ease his pain." She turned around and interrupted him, looking up again at him with a pair of blazing almost pale iris. "He will need some anaesthetic liquid and painkillers. The former made up of opium, henbane, mulberry juice, lettuce, hemlock, mandragora, and ivy. The latter blend of chamomile, comfrey, cowbane and deadly nightshade!" She snapped but she managed to keep her tone low enough not to awake those sleeping soldiers.

"Where can I find some?" He demanded and suddenly closed in the distance between them. His gloved hands seized firmly on her upper arm. She could feel his grip on her tightening. She now realised how tall this discourteous man was. She was merely at the height of his ears. His height and size were intimidating. The aura of authority that radiated from him was overwhelming. Too many times she had seen such radiated power among her family, from her father especially.

She continued to ignore him as if she did not hear him.

He looked into her grey eyes and his teeth bared and clenched with every word he said. "Tell me, where can I find it?" His grip on her arms tightened even more. Her upper arms began to feel the strain from his physical strength.

She struggled to shake off his strong hands but her effort bear no fruit. Annoyed and irritated by his angry tone and his reluctance to release his grip, she became furious. "If you could _kindly_ let go of me, _my lord_, then I _will_ be able to find some! For Valar's sake, you are the _most_ impatient man in the Middle-earth! Will you let go?"

Her infuriated tone slapped him like a cold fish. He suddenly realised his action was lack of restraint and his grip loosen, releasing her. He tore his glare away from her. A sense of guilt ran through him, condemning himself for not being able to hold his temper. With a faint sigh, he turned back to her with a softer glance and voice, he said, "I apologize."

Her lips flattened but she said nothing. She did not appeared angry anymore. She turned her attention away and searched through the other chest for the medicines.

Gamling approached and said to Éomer in their tongue, "My lord, you need the strength to lead the men, if you could please leave this to Marshal Elfhelm and me." He put a hand on his lord's right shoulder urging his lord to make his leave.

Just before he surrendered upon the persistence of his loyal comrade, the lady approached them with 3 jars in her hands. She brought them to their eyes and spoke in a neutral tone, "The two green jars are painkillers. Apply as needed but do not consume. It can kill if it gets into the stomach. The brown is anaesthetic. Apply thrice a day and do not over use." She dropped them in Éomer's hands, "Please use them wisely. There are too many wounded today and too little medicines."

With a disheartening sigh, she continued, "We nearly lost two men at the House of Healing today as there are not enough to go around." Her fingers clenched and twisted the edge of her apron. "I have seen enough deaths today."

Éomer noticed her tone was almost shaky when she finished. He looked at those little jars in his hands and returned his glance on the woman in front of him. With a nod, he and Gamling both thanked her.

"_He who rides hardest tires first_." She gave them a very weak smile and headed towards the entrance of the tent. "Get some sleep, my lords." She bowed and left.

_**He who rides hardest tires first. **_These words echoed in Éomer's ears.


	2. of Dynt and Fool

**All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.**

**Glory Bee: Thank you for taking the time to review my ever first fanfic and my second :D**

**Butterflyninja935 & The Random Hummingbird: Thank you for reviewing my other story. The handbook might play a little role in this story, ha!**

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><p><strong><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>****

**_Chapter 2: of Dynt and Fool_**

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><p>Fields of Pelennor<p>

16 March 3019 T.A.

Some Rohirrim soldiers were already up and bringing their horses near their camp for their daily care and maintenance. Stamping of hooves accompanied by occasional neighing and snorting made the camp livelier than last night. Éomer woke up and saw that the sun was beginning to rise. His throat felt dry and rough. He coughed while trying to swallow and damp his throat.

"Éomer King? Are you awake?" Seemingly someone heard him - a voice rang outside his tent. It was Éothain.

"Yes." He pulled the blanket away and brought his feet down on the side of the bed. He had a very slight headache. Rubbing his right temple, he let out a soft sigh.

Éothain entered and greeted his king, "Good morning, my lord. Do you wish to have a wash?" Éothain had been responsible for Éomer's daily maintenance since he became Third Marshal of The Mark. They had known each other for long time and got along well.

"Please, Éothain. Thank you." Éomer looked around his tent and was puzzled to find his armour scattering on the ground and _two basins_. He tried to remember last night.

"Yes, my lord. I'll get some esquires to burnish your armour." He bowed and hurried off to sort the needing of his lord.

Flexing his arms, Éomer came quickly to remember the unpleasant experience he had with one of the Gondorian servants.

The night of 15 March 3019 was _completely_ out of his elements.

Finally, they were finished with inspecting and comforting their soldiers. There was still some medicine left in the jars. He was told to use them wisely and he did. He left the tent where the injured slept. Elfhelm and Gamling were assigned the same tent just next to the one of the injured men. Prince Imrahil had very generously arranged to set up a more spacious tent for his brother-in-arm and positioned it closer to Minas Tirith, first in the line of the Rohirrim camp. Éomer looked across the field of Pelennor. The dark sky veiled with stars, or maybe they were not stars, he could not tell. He was weary. And his heart sank with grief. His uncle fell. And he almost lost the only family he had left.

The tents around him flickered with dim candlelight from within. It was very quiet. Most had gone to rest. Maybe he should too. He entered his tent and found it well lit with a few candles and torches. A basin of supposingly hot water stood idle. It had been prepared for him but only waited too long for it to go cold. He did wish for a wash, at least to clean off the dirt and dry blood from his face.

He pulled a chair and dropped effortlessly on it. He set his sword aside and pulled off both his leather gloves and reached over his right gauntlet, trying to release it with his left hand, then a sharp pain on the back of his neck shrieked through and down his spine. _**Curse the orcs!**_ One had managed to hit him with a mace when he was attacking the Haradrims. There was no open wound, as far as he could tell, but it did land a heavy blow. Reaching beneath his hauberk with his right hand, he felt a bump, almost the size of his palm just above his left shoulder. He hissed as he continued to assess it. It hurt with every little movement he made. Now that his mind and attention were no longer centred to the war and his men, suddenly everything came back to him. The sore, the ache and of course the pain. Having difficulty removing his armour, he quickly became frustrated and swore in Rohirric.

Heading back towards Minas Tirith, Lothíriel was running a final check across the Rohirrim camp and carrying a small basin of hot water with her in case any of the feverish soldiers needed refreshing. When she heard someone hissed and swore, she quickly examined where it was coming from. She could not understand the speech, but she recognised the tone. The tone was of frustration with sour pitch of pain. She had heard it too many times today. Following the sound, she found herself at the tent bearing the standard of a white horse against a green field with a golden sun above it. White and green, the colours of the Horselords. Banner of The King.

Hearing approaching footsteps, he reached for his sword and shouted loudly in Rohirric and his tone was not friendly, "Who is it?"

"Who is there?" He kept asking in a louder volume.

A shadowy figure seemed to have taken by shock. It took a step back then stood still outside his tent. He could not tell or recognise who it was. Then the sleeves of the tent were lifted, there came and stood the woman he met moments ago.

She should just have left it and gone to bed but she could not help it. She was not used to be ignorant. Upon lifting the tent sleeves, she was met with the same pair of angry eyes that she had seen before. His loose blond mane fell in front of his face but they failed to curtain those sharp eyes. The glow from candlelight and torches lit up the tent significantly more than the tent that they were previously in. She could now get a clearer view of him. A straight nose and weathered face grimed with grease, dry blood and muck sat beneath the blond fringes.

"My lord, I heard you outside. What is it?" She asked.

"It is none of your business. Please leave."

"But you were hissing of pain. I've heard you." She insisted persistently.

"I am fine!" He roared.

"You are not! What do you need?" She barked back.

"I just need some hot water." He broke his glare away from her. Fatigue crept over him. He did not have the strength to argue with _this_ woman.

She came up to him, leaving her basin next to his feet then rose to remove the basin of cold water from its stand and replaced it by the another hot basin.

He could not help but noticed how swift she was with her task. He resumed removing his armour. Just before he finished the second buckle on his shoulder plates, he caught the corner of his eyes and she was _still_ standing there and watching him. In his tent while he was getting undressed.

"Woman, what are you still here? Do you enjoy watching a man getting naked? Leave!" He snorted. He did not need help to remove his armour and certainly not a woman there to witness him getting undressed.

Her eyes narrowed. She was certain something was bothering him. His movement seemed crippled in her eyes. No man removed his armour like that. Not unless he was in pain somewhere. But as her presence was not appreciated, she decided it was time to leave. She just returned him another angry look, bowed and took her leave. Just a few steps away, she heard him cursing again and again. And each time it was getting louder.

She was not blessed with a pair of healing hands. She was not destined to be a healer. Most living creatures that came into her hands did not survive for long; animals and sadly plants too. Taking it as a bad sign, she had then refused to treat any wounded but offered to run the domestic affairs of their household. Or, more appropriately, a Mistress of Household, as her three brothers loved to call her.

Her eyes wandered across the open space in front of her, not knowing what to do with this proud Horselord. Her feet turned back and she stood just a few feet away from his tent, making sure he did not find her outside his tent. She had learnt enough of his temper in less than a few hours.

The cursing continued and often accompanied with a loud clack of metal object falling onto the ground. It repeated a few times until all had gone silent. Then she heard dripping of water.

Éomer was not particularly impressed with himself now. It was clumsy to remove any piece of armour when the sharp pain cornered around every nerve of his. It took a while to get rid of all the armour. He pulled the chainmail over his head and began to undo the lace of on the back of his tunic. Another strike of pain shot up his neck. He hissed and cursed. He flung the soiled robe on the chair. Reaching for the cotton towel, he squeezed out the excessive water and started cleaning his face and body, then finally worked his way around the bruise bump. Biting his lower lip, he had managed to wipe himself clean enough to go to bed. After putting on the pair of clean cotton trousers provided by Imrahil's hospitality, he now found it harder to put the shirt on. Exhaustion was over running his mind and body, intensifying the pain around his neck. He cursed again and this time really loud.

Waiting outside and deciding she would bear no more of this, she stormed into his tent. She flung the sleeves of the tent and her eyes widened as there standing in front of her was a half naked huge man, back to her, in his trousers, then slowly turned around looking puzzled.

"For Béma's sake, why-" He yelled at her, fumed by her uninvited presence. His patience was running thin.

Before he could continue, she interrupted him abruptly. "What is that?" She paced in towards him and surveyed his back, pushing aside his hair and there in front of her, she saw a bruise. A raised bruise of purple and black and it was bigger than her palm.

"Why did you not seek a healer, my lord? This is a bad bruise! It needs tending!" She exclaimed.

"It is nothing! There is no open wound. Just a bruise and it does _NOT_ require tending!" He barked at her. He started to wonder if this woman was a warg in her previous life. Like a warg, she won't loosen her bite but kept vexing him down to every bit of his nerve.

"Of course it does!" Why this man could not see the need for healer to tend him just because he was not bleeding, she could fail to understand his sense at all.

Enraged by his response, nameless fury crawled over her. She bit her lower lip and then unexpectedly she struck him with heel of her left palm on his very bruise. Her unforeseen revenge sent even more pain piercing through his fatigued body. Reflex response kicked in. He grabbed her palm with his right hand and rose to his full height, charging towards her, banging her on her floor. As much as she had anticipated this, she thought he was going to scream and yell at her. But it all happened very fast and went windwhirling. Now a man sat on top of her, restraining her movement with the heavy load on her left arm and his left arm pressing against her throat. So hard that she thought her neck would break. And she could not breathe. She could feel her throat compressing and her tongue sticking out from her mouth. She made desperate effort to inhale all the air while trying to pull his arm away with her other free hand.

Her eyes widened in terror as the air within her lungs was depleting rapidly, compromised by her vigorous action of trying to save herself. Her pupils appeared hollow. Pale ring circled around a darker shade of grey like a deep whirlpool that consumed all his rationale.

"M...my lo...rd!" She gathered all her strength and made a hiss through her compressed throat.

Like one waking from a nightmare, his arms released her immediately and he fell back, becoming aware that his mind was overrun by the aftermath of battle.

She lifted her weight to her side and supported herself by pressing her right elbow on the ground.

"A...are you o...out of your Rohir...rim mind?" Still gasping for air, she tried to find her voice. Her breathing was heavy and rapid. Sweat dampened her forehead. Her mind was still choking with fear. She had not felt this horrified in her life. With a hand examining her throat, she was a little relieved to find no obvious bruise on her.

"I am truly sorry, my lady! It was reflex. " He could not find any reason behind his assault, or any words other than sorry. He grabbed for a chair, and sat his body effortlessly upon it. It had been a day too long for any man to endure either physically or mentally. His brows drew closer. He rubbed his temple, and was still in disbelief that he had attacked an unarmed woman just moments ago. Maybe he should really get some sleep.

"My lord." Her voice now seemed gentle and soft. "I need to tend your bruise. I may be no healer, but that bruise of yours is no ordinary bruise. I need to see to it." Squatting down, she brought her eyes to the level of his face. He raised his eyes and gave her a brief nod.

"I will not take you by surprise this time." She reassured him as she went around to his left. As she examined his bruise closer, she now saw it was the doing of an orc mace. The same type of weapon that also left a similar huge bruise on her brother's thigh. It was not lethal but could carry the pain for a good long while if not tended. Sweeping his blonde locks aside, the purple and black lump was in fact the upper section of his left trapezius muscle. Placing the heel of her palm gently on his bump, she inhaled before saying, "This will hurt. But it will be better tomorrow."

He leaned forward and gazed her from the corner of his eyes, then pushed himself back against the chair and acknowledged her by a nod, gesturing for her to proceed.

"The pain will ease in a few days and it will be less strained than now." Slowly she rubbed around his shoulder and neck. The circular motion gradually increased in pressure. His shoulders stiffened. The pain was bearable but still occasionally he whished through his teeth and cursed in his own tongue. The strain came and went, but his neck and shoulder were starting to feel less sore. His body began to relax. She noticed his slight change of posture. Years of growing and getting into troubles with her three brothers paid off now, somehow in a different way, she least expected. A bruise if not tended immediately would cause more harm – something she had learned the hard way.

She pulled him back upright and motioned him to stay still. From the pocket of her apron, she took the scissors and made a small cut on the cotton sheet laid on the bed then tore it into long stripes. It was now too late to get a healer to bandage him. It would have to do with whatever she could find. She hesitated to move in front of him to wrap the bandage. She decided she was reluctant to meet his glaze. His eyes were very sharp and keen. They were horrifying when he was enraged as she had now learnt. If one could tell the mind of a man from his eyes, then his eyes would certainly have betrayed him.

"Just finishing the bandage." A soft voice rang in his ear. She was stretching her arms back and forth to pull a tight bandage around his shoulder. It was a rather difficult spot to wrap. He could feel her breath blowing on his skin and her blunt fingers finding their way across his chest.

His body was very well toned and brawny much like any other soldiers she met today. Though she did not have the delicate hands of a healer, she had arranged the necessary making it easier for the healers.

Pulling the two ends of the strips to tighten the bandage, she finished the knot. She stepped away and towards to the tent entrance and said, "All is done. You still need to see the healers tomorrow. Lord Beregond will be able to help. It should be less painful if you should be on your horse again in a few days."

"Don't be a fool next time. Don't that again! You could have been killed." He rose to his feet and swung his left arm around. The pain had indeed lessened and he could move his arm easier than before.

"_A fool?_ I did that to-" Her eyes narrowed and her emotion inflamed by his words, she wanted to retaliate his understatement but then decided it was pointless. They were not at the same level of understanding and would never be. Collecting herself, she just replied, "_Don't change horses in midstream_, my lord. I bid you a good night."

She bowed and turned around and headed towards her tent. _**Fool? Yes, of course, she was a fool! What fool would still stay in the same lair after being bitten. **_Uttering quietly to herself, she wished she would not have exchange of business with this man again. She hastened her pace into her tent. Weariness had caught up with her. She needed some sleep to cleanse off all her doom tonight.

Éomer could not care more about this female servant. _**Stupid woman!**_ He threw himself on the make bed and drifted into a deep sleep.

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><p><strong>Note: "A...are you o...out of your Rohir...rim mind?" - borrowed from Dr Bones' line "Are you out of your Vulcan mind?" in Star Trek 2009 :)<strong>


	3. of Hurtsickles and Saddle

**All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.**

**Glory Bee: Thank you again for taking the time to review my second chapter!**

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><p><strong><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>****

**_Chapter 3: of Hurtsickles and Saddle_**

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><p>City of Minas Tirith<p>

16 March 3019 T.A.

She rose earlier than she needed to. She could not really sleep. She dreamed again last night. The very saEdit/Previewme which began haunting her 10 years ago, making every night a living perdition. She dared not sleep when it was too quiet. The red virga trailing the evening clouds of last night created was an eerie warning that she would be visited soon again by the same nightmare. She looked into her palms and found the blood was gone as it always disappeared every time she woke up.

She had a quick wash and put on a high-collar blouse to hide the purple that she received last night. There was no need to worry anyone over this matter and her father should not see it. The sky was now fair with light clouds. She opened her window and felt the westward wind brushing her face. She must ready herself soon. Much more needed doing today.

She seeked for her father after she had finished her dealings at the kitchen and Houses of Healing. Her cousin, Faramir, was recovering. The White Lady of Rohan, though still deep in her sleep, carried steady breaths. The Halfling named Merry was awake. She was astonished to learn his deed from her brother. The King had returned as rumours went around. It was good news.

As she hastened to meet her father, she saw the most unbelievable sight - an elf and a dwarf walking side by side. Legolas, as if he always recognised even the slightest Elven feature one carried, he halted and Gimli looked upon and saw a lady approaching. They bowed to the lady in front of them and Legolas greeted her in the dulcet tone of Elvish.

Lothíriel quickly realised the Elf was speaking to her though she could not comprehend his speech. She returned them with a polite bow, "Good day to you, Master Dwarf and Master Elf. I am sorry that I did not understand your tongue."

"Ah, my lady. You must pardon me that I saw the similarity that you share with Prince Imrahil. Elven blood still runs deep in you as I can see." Legolas immediately corrected himself.

"This elf can tell if you have a single drop of Elven blood even when you are miles away and he assumes everyone understands him!" The dwarf chuckled at his friend's attempt.

She raised her head and acknowledged the keen eyes of Legolas, "My lords, Prince Imrahil is my father. Should Elven blood runs deep in his veins, so should it be in me. Lothíriel is my name. Good day to you, my lords."

The brief introduction went for a while and she excused and parted from the pair of friends. She caught her father as he was talking to one of his men. "Father, has the war not won? Why is there still gloom?" Her feeling stirred and sense of unease haunted her thought when she saw her father.

"No, my daughter. The battle of Pelennor was victorious but the weapon of the enemy still lives. I suspect this is why Lord Aragorn has called for a counsel in his tent." Prince Imrahil paced around the hall, trying to explain the possible peril to his daughter.

"You are not marching against the enemy, aren't you, Father?" She could not hide her concern. The hurt of war was deep for both Rohan and Gondor. They lost many and did not have enough men. They were very vulnerable if they were to march against the enemy again.

"If there is a need, so be it, Lothíriel. Great deeds cannot be done without sacrifice. I will let you know." He asked her to prepare provisions. With that he said no more to his daughter. She excused herself. War against the Dark Lord was the domain for men like her father and brothers. Her war was here in Minas Tirith, against time and odds.

* * *

><p>It was not until later that it was announced the Men of the West would march to the Black Gate. Her father, her brothers, Lord Aragorn and Lord of Rohan would ride with seven thousand men tomorrow. Her brothers gathered their men and briefed them on the peril of this journey. She saw the fear in their eyes as well as grief in those who could no longer fight and defend their lords.<p>

"What will my lord think of me, my lady? I wish to follow him wherever he goes but I am no use in battle anymore!" Cried one of the aged Rohirrim riders, weeping at his missing legs. He must be older than her father. His hair was of silver and grey. He lost both his legs when the Oplihaunts flung his horse and he fell from such height that his knees shattered upon hitting the ground. Cruel but true, injured and disabled men were and would always be liability in battle. There was not always an option to carry the injured to persuade the journey of battle.

Worried by the disturbance in Anorien, Éomer kept Elfhelm with three thousand men to defend against any further attack in his absence. He then went to see his sister. The Master Healer had reassured him that she would recover fully if she stayed in bed for at least a week. She looked like a child when she was asleep. He pushed her hair from her forehead and observed her. How could he fail to see the grief and fear that she long had carried? He caressed her pale cheek with his knuckles and spoke softly as she would hear him, "Éowyn, we are marching to the Black Gate tomorrow. I know not what the perils I will face but I promise I will return."

She stirred a little upon his words but still did not awake from her sleep. He kissed between her brows. How much he loved her, the love of a brother that ran so deep it had nearly forsaken his life on Pelennor Field. As he emerged from her chamber, he heard disheartening cries across the Houses of Healing.

"What happened?" He stopped of one the healers and questioned him. "Three Swan knights passed away last night. We could not do more to save them. There were not enough medicines." This was the answer. He frowned at the answer. The struggle of getting some salves for his men last night came to make sense. Living was a blessing but trying to keep one alive was a struggle and compromise which no man could make a balance out of.

* * *

><p>He descended from The Houses of Healing to the stables. He wanted to check Firefoot and made sure that his charger had not run out of patience waiting for his master. The stable of Minas Tirith was inferior if compared to that of Edoras. The stables here were just simple stables as they fit the purpose of keeping horses. He could understand that since Gondorian did not share the same affection for horses as the Rohirrims did.<p>

As he entered the stable, he immediately heard a loud neigh. He recognised it. There stood Firefoot, loud and proud the noise it made. Éothain might seem playful at times but he was always careful when dealing with the care of his belongings. The horse tack was hanging next to Firefoot. His saddle, stirrup, bridle, halters, reins, martingales and breastplates were all in the stable. He opened the door of the stable box, and reached out for his horse. Firefoot neighed again lifting its head and then lowering down as it longed for its master to touch him.

"Shhh, I know it is not your stable, Firefoot. But this will have to do for now." He comforted his horse in Rohirric and stroked along its nose as his mount nickered quietly now and moved closer toward him. He grabbed a brush from the toolbox laying nearby and began brushing the sand and dust off Firefoot's back.

Suddenly it let out loud snort, a sign that stranger was present. Éomer looked to the direction of the stable entrance and found a young boy standing behind a pillar. Firefoot's loud unwelcoming snort seemed to have frightened the boy.

"He is scary." His voice sounded shaky. The boy glared at the grey beast. His huge brown eyes reflected the fear he had for the beast.

He put away the brush, and patted Firefoot on its neck, then turned to the young boy and smiled, "No, he is not. He is just not used to strangers. He is Firefoot. Do you want to touch him?" He gestured the boy to approach, encouraging him to take a look at his horse.

Still frightened by its size, the boy gave Éomer a timid smile. "I don't think he will like it." He tried to hide his little body behind the stone pillar.

Éomer only smiled to the boy. He must always remind himself that culture was different in Gondor. Unlike Rohirrims, not all Gondorians were used to horses. He brushed the neck of Firefoot and it rubbed its nose under his chin.

"Your hair is light. So, you are one of the Riders from the West?" The innocent kid started to take notice of his colourings.

"Yes." A simple answer. He was not sure if he should embark a conversation of war and orcs with someone of this young age.

Then, a mellow melody of harp rang from a distant. It sounded pleasant like a lullaby for infants. The boy seemingly to hear the song, "The dance is starting, I have to go! Good day to you, my lord." He straightened up, running off to some place where the music was coming from.

Éomer chuckled at the boy's reaction. He returned his attention to Firefoot, preparing to take his friend out for a ride. He led the reins and they left the stable. It was light and breezy. They came to a narrow path leading towards a small fountain court where the laughter and cheering of children were. He peered into the distance. Children were scampering happily around the fountain. He then noticed a black-haired lady playing a harp. The music soon stopped when she heard the stumping noise of Firefoot. She turned around and saw a tall blond man. And handsome. Definitely her type. She quickly rose and bowed to him, "Good day."

"Good day to you too," he said courteously. He did not know her.

She lifted her head up, flicking her hair behind her ear and she could not hide her smile. Her eyes were on him. She was examining him from head to toe. Her long lashes fan up and down and her eyes flickered with admiration. He knew that frivolous look. She was flirting with him.

Firefoot grunted with tapping its front feet and appeared to be rather unimpressed with the situation. Éomer patted his horse and was ready to take his leave. He was not an inexperienced man yet he was not tempted or affected by her reaction. It was not the first time that women tried their ways with him. His duty was with his people and land. Then a clear voice rang from behind him, "Moriel!"

The lady named Moriel quickly responded to the call and bowed, "Lady Lothíriel."

Éomer turned around and his eyes stumbled upon the female servant from last night. The unpleasant servant who now appeared rather dirty with grim on her dress with a basket of apples in her arm. She frowned at him.

"My lord," she nodded to him only to acknowledge his presence and quickly passed him.

"We are short in the kitchen. Can you please go and lend the maids a hand?" She tried to keep her neutral tone, not wanting to show her dissatisfaction of his presence. And it was time to despatch Moriel away. Moriel was a very attractive girl. Only a year younger than Lothíriel and had been her household servant ever since she could remember. They grew up together and as the years went by, many men fell for Moriel's beauty. She was fair with shiny black hair. Her appearance brought her great admiration in Dol Amroth and there were offers made to ask her in hand of marriage. Somehow she declined all the offers and chose to stay with Lothíriel. For this, Lothíriel was very gladful. But the hubris brought about by her beauty was always a matter of worry for Lothíriel that someday her flirtatious behaviour would result in regretful debauchery.

"Yes, my lady." Moriel bowed again and cast Éomer a smile as she left the fountain court.

Éomer did not react to her smile and her face quickly shadowed by disappointment as she went out of sight.

"Lothíriel!" Exclaimed one of the children upon sighting her presence. Lothíriel grinned at the children when they ran toward her seeing the apples in her basket. They quickly indulgenced themselves with an apple each.

Éomer was actually baffled by the presence of children, not only that they were not supposed to be there, but also they were supposed to have been evacuated. This was time of war.

"Why are they not evacuated? They are children. They are supposed to be somewhere safe!" He blurted out as he could not hold his anger. The angry feeling triggered by the battle at Helm's Deep. It was a bitter victory.

She turned to finally look at him. She did not like his eyes. They were so cerulean yet incisive. His sharp gaze could uplift the face of a liar revealing the true nature beneath.

"They are orphans." Her voice was not as powerful as she found. She looked away avoiding his eyes. "While children with parents were evacuated, they were forgotten and left behind. My brother found them hiding beneath the basement when he was looking for survivors last night."

He was not expecting this answer. He regretted having asked the question. Then an object of a round shape was coming at him, he reached out his hand and caught it. His eyes shone with amazement. It was an apple. A very big apple, bigger than his palm.

Lothíriel tilted her head and chuckled lightly, "It is for the big guy. He has been dribbling since I reached here with the apples." She gestured at Firefoot.

"Do you like it?" He asked Firefoot in Rohirric as it happily and greedily mauled down the big fruit.

"What will happen, my lord? When do we have to stop fighting and fearing for our lives?" She stared onto the horizon. West windy breeze danced around the bottom of her dress.

He was conversant in war but it should never been a topic of discussion. He must have been lost in thought when a pair of little hands was trying to get his attention. Looking down, he saw the same boy whom he met at the stable before was holding a bunch of flowers. He lowered himself to meet the little boy.

"Thank you." He grinned, accepting the flowers. He was astound and absolutely touched by this little offer. The boy returned with a shy simper, "No, thank you! Big brave warrior!" Then he ran off.

He rose and found Lothíriel staring at him. Her eyes narrowed into moon-like shape. She let out a soft laugh, pointing at the bunch of flowers in his hands, she said, "They are Hurtsickle. They symbolise blessing."

The Horselord took a closer look at the blue flowers. Yes, indeed, he needed blessing. He was about to embark a journey of peril which nobody knew if any would return.

With a loud stamp, Firefoot started to neigh impatiently. Éomer knew he had lingered too long and it was time to go.

"He is a great horse. _A good horse knows when danger is about, a great horse sees you through it. _Farewell, my lord. May the blessing of Valar be with you."

"Thank you," He bowed and mounted up on Firefoot.

"But my disliking of you has not lessened, Lord Éomer." She simply declared before Firefoot turned away.

"Same here, Lady Lothíriel." He replied eyeing her with his green amber-tinted iris then dashed down The White City with Firefoot.

They parted in the same agreement that they disliked each other.

* * *

><p>Lothíriel was just finished with the preparation of provisions when her father sent a servant for her. Her father very seldom sent someone for her unless something significant was afoot. She knocked on his door and entered. To her surprise, her father was not alone. But her brothers were not here. Another man was with her father. She could tell from the use of fabric of his clothes, he was a noble. But little she knew what his purpose was with her father <em>and<em> her. But he quickly left Prince Imrahil's room. Her father made no notion of saying anything to her about this noble.

"Lothíriel," he grabbed the shoulders of his daughter and drew close. "Your brothers and I are riding to The Black Gate in two days with Men of The West. This is a journey of perils which we might not return." He kissed her forehead. "Should things go ill, take the ship and go back to Dol Amroth. I will try to send news but it would be difficult."

Her body trembled upon the thought of losing her father and brothers. When everyone else despised her of her wrong-doings, her father and brothers always stood by her. She did not dishonour her family. It was the right thing to do even it had cost her family their pride, she did not regret it but only the loss of lives it had caused – the consequence that she failed to foresee and the force that grew stronger every day since then taunted her.

* * *

><p><em>Note: In next chapter, their disliking of each other actually gets worse...<em>


	4. of Coward and Burden

**All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>**

**_Chapter 4: of Coward and Burden_**

* * *

><p>Fields of Pelennor<p>

16 March 3019 T.A.

Lothíriel was tending the wounded soldiers, seeing them to their lunch. There were many who could not eat without help, hamstrung by the injuries they received. She gathered some men who her father could spare. It was no easy task. Some injured would just become so frustrated that they refused to eat. Just as she was handing a bowl of stew to a helper, she overheard the loud quarrel outside the tent. She lowered the ladle and decided to investigate the root of the fit. Then a man stormed into the tent, red-faced and looking hot under his collar, trampling recklessly around the tables and yelling on top of his lungs, "Where is Prince Imrahil? I want to see him! He promised to talk to me! Where is he?"

Lothíriel immediately recognised this man. He was the noble who shamelessly took the salves for his selfish purpose even when he was unharmed. The dastard who exhibited no sympathy for commoners and peasants. "I am sorry. Prince Imrahil has other dealings. How can I help?" She offered to listen to his request despite the crude look he cast on her.

His eyes went from top to toe, inspecting her in her rugged dress and commoner blouse, swaggering around her. "Who are you to speak to me? I need to speak to Prince Imrahil in person, not likes of you. It is a matter of great significance! "

His uncouth words were no help to getting closer to her father. She would not allow such man to be in close proximity to her family. She struggled to collect her temper, still trying to sound neutral, "Lord Imrahil is not here. Perhaps I could offer to pass the message through."

"You? What do lows like you know? I am Lord Galar. I am going to ask Prince Imrahil for his daughter's hand in marriage. The great Princess of Dol Amroth and I shall be her husband!" He roared in her face with disgust in his voice, "What sincerity do I show if I need a lowly servant to tell the Prince about my proposal? Begone and let me speak to Prince Imrahil!" He did not seem to appreciate her courtesy.

The Swan Knights guarding the tent had their hands on their hilts, readied to move in. They did not take any insults lightly and moreover, it was directed to the daughter of their lord. Lothíriel lifted her hand, and gestured the knights to back away.

She then smirked at this spineless man who did not have the courage to join the army, who fled upon hearing the word "fight" and who, in each and every way, irritated her to the core.

"Let me tell you, Lord Galar," She went close to his ears in a whispering fashion but in a voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "This is indeed generous of you to ask _my_ Princess' hand in marriage. But she will have to decline your offer, unfortunately, for she does not wish to marry a_** coward.**_" She put her emphasis on her last word.

Some servants and soldiers brought their hands up trying to hide their laughs. Feeling humiliated, the noble's face reddened. He still tried defending himself and his shaken voice rang again. He barked back at her, "I am _not_ a coward! I am willing to give up my last breath to The Princess. I shall protect her from all harms and ills!"

She cackled upon his words. Only lies came from a false tongue. If his words were convincing, then pigs would have wings and fly. "Yet you _**are**_! You fled when The Steward called the men to war. You hid and you stole salves from the Houses of Healing when others were dying! And yet you have no shame but to ask Lord Imrahil for his daughter's hand in marriage? You are lower than worm's belly crawling in the mud!" It made her sick to her stomach if she were to wed someone like him.

"You lie! Filthy wench with forked tongue! Let me see Prince Imrahil!" He demanded, grabbing her shoulder, his fingers crawling into her skin. He refused to give up his efforts. Two guards marched swiftly to him and took him by his arms and pulled him away.

"I will report this to Prince Imrahil! You will not get away, you wench!" He kicked his legs like a spoiled brat. His voice faded and she watched as the guards removed him from the tent and dragged him and dumped him off at the entrance to Minas Tirith.

The revenge on the noble man at lunch time had cheered her mood up. She had not always been in favour for humiliating someone openly like that but that man well deserved it. She whistled a little tune, making her way to check the orphans. They were supposed to have finished their meals. Merry she was now, but she least expected that it all soon turned chaotic.

* * *

><p>Rohirrim camp.<p>

The galloping of hooves halted abruptly in front of the tent of Lord of Rohan. She quickly dismounted from her horse and wanted to storm in. The guarding Rohirrims, in front of the tent, stopped her from going further.

"I am sorry, my lady. You cannot enter. " One of them reminded her that she had no right to storm into a king's tent like that. Their spears crossed the mouth of the tent.

"I have to see him! Can you tell him, please? It is urgent, please!" She pleaded.

"I cannot allow that, my lady. My lord is not here." Said another with a heavy accent.

"Where is he? Tell me!" She grew restless.

"He is in a council with Lord Gamling, just over there." The Rohirrim guard pointed her to a green tent nearby.

"Thank you," she bowed and gathered the reins of her horse and hastened towards the green tent.

And when she reached there, she was again impeded by the Rohirrim guards standing outside.

"I need to speak to your king. Will you please just let him know? Tell him Lothíriel wishes to see him!" She persistently demanded.

"My lady, Éomer King is in a council. Perhaps, it is wise to wait until he is finished." The guard tried to reassure her that she should wait.

"No, it is a matter of urgency afoot! I need to see him NOW! Please!" She continued to beg. She never understood why the Rohirrims were so stubborn.

Inside the tent, Éomer was sealing the letters he wrote to the families of the fallen Rohirrims. Gamling was at the table with him, overlooking the appropriate words to pass the ill news. Éothain was standing a foot away. He was now the Head of The Royal Guards. The quarrelling noise outside the tent did not go unnoticed. Éomer turned his eyes to Éothain and motioned him to take a look.

Éothain was surprised to see that one of his guards was in an argument with a woman. The guard noted the presence of Éothain and whispered in his ears. Lothíriel did not understand Rohirric but she could tell that the third man was not very pleased with her. His eyes narrowed as the guard continued to feed the message through.

"Lady Lothíriel, is it? I understand that your need to see Éomer King. But as Stán has told you, my king is, indeed, occupied with some matter of great importance. It is, perhaps, wise to come back another time." He was actually repeating the same answer that she had heard before.

"You don't understand! It is really urgent! I really have to see him_ now_! Please!" She did not want to sound like a spoiled child but the matter she had in hands could not wait.

"My lady, do you not understand me? I will say again – my king is in a council. He is in a meeting with Lord Gamling and I very much doubt that he wished to be disturbed." Éothain was still very polite, trying to reason with this woman. It was not in his manner of upbringing that a man should raise his voice on a woman.

While inside the tent, distracted by the unsettling noise outside, Éomer handed all the sealed letters to Gamling and decided to investigate matter himself. He lifted the tent sleeves and asked, "For Béma's sake, what is this madness?" And he first saw a horse, his three guards then a woman in between. _That_ woman that he met in the morning and last night. Now she was making a scene. More and more soldiers emerged from their tents, gathered and looked curiously at her.

Her eyes brightened up when he came out from the tent. She nearly bumped onto him.

"Have you seen Hannor? Have you seen him?" She was talking rapidly. Concern drew over her face.

"Who?" He frowned with a questioning look. Obviously he did not recall knowing that name or someone with that name.

"The boy! The young boy who you met this morning! He gave you the hurtsickles! Have you seen him? Tell me you have!" She urged.

"No. I have not." He shook his head. His brows scrunched. "What business is this?"

"I could not find him anywhere." The panic in her voice and face grew heavier.

"Well, he is not here." Short and crisp was his reply. His voice came out colder than he thought. To her ears, his words were devoid of warmth. This man was made of stone.

"He told the others that he would go and collect some flowers for you. He is not in Minas Tirith! I have checked every corner!" She found her voice trembling as thoughts grew darker inside her. Her feet lost their strength. She grabbed the reins of her horse to balance herself.

"I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps he-" He could see the panic in her eyes. But his words did not reach her ears. She sensed his reluctance to help and eagerness to get rid of her, so she jumped up her horse not waiting for him to finish. "_WHAT_ do you think are you doing, woman?" He pulled the reins in her hands and demanded, seeing that she was ready to ride off.

"Alas, if he is not here, then there is one place he can be. The forest where hurtsickles sprout the most." She lifted her chin and peered into the bushes leading to Drúadan Forest. "If you choose not to help then _let_ me go." She did not want to beg him for help. She still had her pride.

"Don't be silly! You go into that forest, you will only return as bones." Éomer did not have the heart to let a woman venturing alone into that forest. He may dislike her but he was not cruel. With a sigh, he turned to his bodyguard and Gamling. In his own tongue he spoke to them, "Éothain, bring me Firefoot, get a healer in my tent and then come with me. Gamling, have ten men ready and we meet in quarter of an hour in front of my tent. We are going into the forest." He marched towards his tent.

"I am coming with you," she followed him, leading her horse, seemingly to understand that he had decided to go to the forest in search for the little boy.

"It would be very wise if you _stay_." He turned around and said dryly, casting his hazel green eyes into her grey ones, trying to discourage her with his hard stare.

"No!" She grabbed his arm, digging her fingers into his gauntlet. "I will go regardless. I am _not_ your soldier. You do not command me." Returning the glare, her protest toned with persistence and anger.

He lowered his eyes on her hand which was still gripping on his arm. She quickly realised how improper and rude her action was. "I am sorry." She loosened her grip and tore her eyes away. He did not respond to her apology. Deciding that this woman would not give up the thought of going into the forest to search for the boy, he snorted and went into his tent to fetch his helmet.

Within minutes, the Riders gathered in front of their king with long spears in their hands. Éomer mounted and gave a short instruction. His voice was clear. "There might be a boy missing in Drúadan Forest. We will seek out in the forest. Scour any suspicious path and learn if any other sign has been left behind which may reveal the trace of the boy. We have to find him."

"There is little time to lose. Ride out! Ha!" Kicking his horse foward, the white horse tail on his helmet flew in the breeze. Firefoot. Lothíriel followed him, riding behind him. For a moment, she felt lost. She did not understand Rohirric and nobody cared enough to translate it to her. She just pulled the reins and led her horse until she came next to Éothain.

Then a deep voice rang ahead. It was Westron and it was meant for her. "Beasts dwell in the forest. Do not wander."

Within minutes, the Riders arrived at the boulders of the forest. The bushes were thick. The canopy of the trees blocked the sun light. They dismounted and followed their king into the forest. They searched thoroughly for anything that may divulge to them the whereabouts of the boy.

"He was here!" She exclaimed, pointing at a small bush of plant with missing stalks. Éomer stepped in and took a closer look. The cut was still fresh and neat. It was a remnant that the boy could not be far.

"Lord Éomer!" One of his riders called out and waved at him. Éomer quickly ran over to his man. She followed his steps closely. He examined the stalks. Another neat cut. Then he noticed the small footprints around it. She followed the prints and signalled to him to look at another set of deep prints just nearby. Deep and huge marks of paws and claws. A wolf.

He threw Éothain a troubled look then drew Gúthwinë and so did his Riders. They moved steadily and quietly. "Stay close, Lady Lothíriel." Éothain hissed at her as he quickened his steps to position himself on her side. Éomer was leading the way. The light was fading quickly, creating new shadows. His armour seemed to have taken a darkened colour without the grace of sun. He watched carefully every step as he followed the trail of the small foot prints. And the prints of paws and claws were never far from them. The wolf was stalking its prey. His throat tightened on the thought of this.

They crept through the woods. There was still no sign of Hannor. Yet the threat of danger grew heavier with every step they ventured further in the forest. Lothíriel was finding her movement obstructed by her long dress. The branches every now and often caught the fabric. Annoyed, she pulled and lifted her dress up to knee length so that she could meet the speed of the Riders.

Éothain saw her doing and narrowed his eyes on the sight of her feet. She wore no leather boots but a pair of suede shoes obviously unfit for creeping through woods. Some sharp briars scratched her exposed shins. She ignored his warning and continued. Éothain shook his head at her resolute character and gave up his attention. Then her movement was jerked. She felt a splinter through her left foot and the stream of warm liquid flowing. The suede of her shoe greedily drank of the generous feed of blood and soon it was damp. The pain shrieked up from her foot to her hip, every time she landed her weight on it. She bit her lips trying not to hiss out in pain.

Then the company halted and they lowered themselves among the twigs and grasses. She lifted her view and saw the movement of the crest of the white horsetail flew from side to side. Éomer had given the signal to his Riders to circle his sides of left and right. She listened to the forest. And a sobbing cry of was faint among the humming and churring in the woods. She saw his hand was up again, and this time in an inclined manner. He was ready to give his orders. As he dropped his hand, arrows and spears darted in in front of her eyes followed by a short wimper. They killed the beast. But where was Hannor?

Éomer rose to his full height and sprinted hastily further. Seeing this, she moved forward but a hand came in front of her, stopping her from going any further. Éothain turned and shook his head at her. He denied her action to follow his king. She let out a heavy sigh at him, feeling defeated by his absolute loyalty. He would obey every command that Éomer had given him. She was not allowed to wander. He did so to make sure she did not stand a chance at disobeying Éomer's order. Intolerable man their king was.

"Lord Éomer is not a harsh person, you know." He said in a low tone. Obviously, her thoughts were all written on her face.

"None of my business," she replied with an annoyed look on her face. Rude in speech and cold in heart. Their king was an insufferable man. Her disliking of him only grew worse.

"**_Carry another man's burden before you judge him_**, my lady." Éothain was not entirely happy with her view of his king. And he came to the conclusion that this woman was _hopeless_.


	5. of Blue and Grey

**All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.**

**Names of original characters are generated from LOTRO name database.**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>**

**_Chapter 5: of Blue and Grey_**

* * *

><p>The rustling sound grew louder. From a distance Éomer emerged with a little curled figure in his arms. Ignoring the pain in her foot upon seeing the boy, she ran towards Éomer and took the little boy in her arms. After checking he was not hurt, she embraced him and kissed him on his head, "Hannor!" Sign of relief in her voice. Her shoulders relaxed.<p>

"Lothíriel, I am so sorry!" Hannor was still sobbing, feeling the guilt of making others worried about him.

"We should return to the camp. Come with me, boy." He offered his hand to the little one. Hannor took his big hand and was carried to the horses. Lothíriel was confused with his action. Then Éothain came and poked her on her shoulder, "Your horse is too small to carry two, my lady. Now let us go."

The joy of finding Hannor alive and unhurt overwrote the pain in her foot. She did not feel it until they were back at the Rohirrim camp. It was already dusk.

Now if she landed it would only get worse. She must get see to it at once and remove the splinter. But she did not want to have it tended at the Rohirrim camp, knowing she expected no words of welcome from their king. She had had enough of the cold shower of his words washing down her. She did not need more. They stopped in front of Éomer's tent. The pain was becoming unbearable. She must go and leave the boy for a while.

"Hannor, you stay here with Lord Éomer. He will take good care of you. I must go now. I will see you later." Then she turned to the Horselord. "And, thank you so much, my lord. I am in your debt." She bowed and turned and rode back to The City of Minas Tirith.

"Weird woman," Éothain muttered to himself. He was baffled by her reaction. Just moments ago, she was all concerned with the boy and now she just left him with a group of strangers. Bizzare, indeed.

The healer gave a thorough examination on Hannor. "The boy is unharmed, my lord. Just little sratches. Nothing of great concern. He should be himself again after a good sleep tonight!"

"Thank you," he was finally relieved that the boy was not hurt himself for his cause.

"My lord," the young boy gave him another timid smile and pulled his chainmail.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" He kneeled down to meet those little eyes.

"These are for you but they are all squashed now." Hannor could not hide the disappointment in his voice when he took the squashed flowers out of his pocket carefully like a precious treasure.

Éomer's gaze softened and he took the flattened plants and placed them on his desk.

"Why did you want to get more flowers for me?" Laying his hands on the little shoulders, the Rohirrim King asked him gently.

"Because I _like_ you." The boy downcast his eyes, embarrassed by his answer. His voice was getting quieter and quieter. "And, you are going somewhere far away and dangerous. I want to see you again. So I thought the more flowers I get you, the more blessing you will get." By the time he finished, his head was so low that Éomer could no longer see his eyes.

Éomer was moved by this small wonder. He took the boy's hands and held them tight with one hand and put another on his shoulder. "Hannor," he called the boy's name. The boy looked up with his brown eyes. "I promise we will see each other again in Minas Tirith. You see these hands of yours?"

Hannor nodded.

Éomer held them tighter and continued, "One day they will grow big and strong. And, you will use them to protect your people and your land. This is what I am doing and why I must go to somewhere far away and dangerous."

To his surprise, the boy hugged him tightly with his little short arms around his neck. "My father said the same to me when he went out with Lord Faramir but he never came back."

"Lady Lothíriel will look after you now," he cupped his little chubby face.

"I think she is angry with me. She left in such hurry," the worried expression on the boy's face reminded him again of Helm's Deep. It was no surprise that such thought crossed the mind of the young boy. It was true that Lothíriel's reaction did not seem to sum up, given that she was so concerned earlier in the afternoon.

"I will talk to her after dinner. I will make sure she is not angry anymore." He patted his head and rubbed his hair to reassure the boy.

* * *

><p>Her horse trotted through the City of Minas Tirith without drawing too much attention, Lothíriel returned it to the stable at the sixth tier. She dismounted and checked that there was no blood stain on the stirrup. Good, there wasn't any. The inside of her shoes now felt sticky and very damp. Her sock was all soaked. Luckily none of the blood managed to leak through the sole. She was relieved that she won't leave a bloody trail behind. Her father won't be pleased to learn about her reckless disregard for her own safety.<p>

The Houses of Healing was just a few steps away. Normally it was easy. But now, she was limping and had to pretend hard to be as normal as possible despite the screaming pain beneath her foot. She sneaked in and made herself look busy with the medicine chest. She hid some bandages, a pair of tweezers, a vial of spirit and a jar of painkiller beneath her sleeves. She still had some cotton balls in her chamber. She also _happened_ to pass through a few basins of hot water and _needed_ to carry one to tend some patients. Not very proud of herself, her action made her feel like a thief.

Padding as slowly as she could, she finally reached her temporary accommodation. It was a small chamber in the fabric shop, not far from the sixth gate, on Rath Bein, fifth tier of Minas Tirith. The owner of the shop vacated her store before offering Lothíriel to stay. It was a perfect location. She was close to The Houses of Healing and The Citadel. She pushed the door ajar, leaving a very narrow gap but too small to for anyone to be able to look inside her chamber.

After settling the medicines and the basin of hot water on the small wooden table, she hopped on one foot, lifting the punctured side. Supporting herself with the side of her bed, she sat and brought her injured foot on her other knee. Carefully she untied the lace and removed her suede shoe, then pulled the blood-soaked sock off. She hissed as the sock tore away from the splinter. Putting the candle closer, she examined her foot. The splinter was sticking out from her hindfoot. _Damn! This is going to hurt so much._ Her face etched as she was trying to pull the splinter out.

A knock on the door shocked her and she nearly lost her balance. "Lady Lothíriel, would you like to have dinner?" It was Moriel. She must have missed her at dinner and brought her some food.

Trying to sound as normal as she could, she just answered, "Yeah, please, Moriel. Can you please leave it at the door please? I am occupied now. Just leave it there. Thank you! I'll have it when I am done. Good night, Moriel. I will see you tomorrow." She was not good at lying but she must send Moriel away without causing too much suspicion.

"Good night, my lady." The fading sound of Moriel's footstep reassured her that she was now alone. She pushed the door open more to see that Moriel had left some bread and ham on a plate at her doorstep.

* * *

><p>Moriel was making her way down to her accommodation when she nearly ran into Éomer. Seeing that he was the handsome man from the morning, she blushed. She was surprised and pleased to see him again. Now it was such an eye candy to her that he was in his armour. She had always adored men of honourable heritage especially in heavy armour.<p>

"Good evening, my lord!" She bowed and could not hide the excitement in her voice.

Éomer was not taking notice of her tone. He had something in mind that he had promised Hannor that he would do. "Good evening. Can you show me where Lady Lothíriel may be?"

The smile wiped instantly from her face. "She wishes not to be disturbed, my lord." She replied dryly.

"It is only a small matter regarding Hannor. It won't take much of her time." Éomer insisted.

Hearing that it was a matter of the orphan boy, Moriel was now less reluctant to show him the way. She lit a faint smile on her face and pointed to the upper tier. "Lady Lothíriel has a chamber in the fabric shop. You will find her there."

"Thank you." He nodded to acknowledge her assistance and ascended through the stone gate. City of Minas Tirith was truly a work of magnificent craft, he thought to himself as he strolled up the stone pavement. Then he saw the fabric shop. There was light – a good sign that the dwellers were still awake.

* * *

><p>Lothíriel clenched her teeth. She had been trying to pull the splinter out with tremendous effort not to magnify the gnawing pain but it proved easier said than done. With careful manoeuvre of the steel tweezers, she could see a third of the splinter was now visible. But there was still the rest which was embedded in her foot. Her forehead glistened with sweat. All her thoughts were on her foot that she hardly noticed anything else around her. Under her heavy breath, she cursed at the excruciating pain.<p>

Éomer found the front door unlocked. He pushed it a little only to see the lounge was empty. It was gimmer with the candles flickering in the mild wind. Some smell caught his nostril. The unmistaken metallic odour that was sickening sweet. His body buckled up and his senses alerted with the possible thrill of danger. He reached for Guthwine and unsheathed his sword. His movement was slow and very quiet.

The clinking of metal and glass seemed to originate from one of the chambers further. There were occasional hissing and angry grunting of a possibly man. His gut wrenched on the thought that there might be some enemies within Minas Tirith that they failed to see. The cursing became louder as he approached the last chamber. His boots nearly kicked the plates of dishes sitting at the doorway. He inhaled deeply and all he got was the sickening sweet of blood. Readying himself for combat, he kicked the door wide open and charged towards the enemy.

It took them both a while to learn the situation. One moment she was busy dabbing some spirit on her wound, another moment she found that she was pinned down in her bed with a hand locked at her jaw and a sword-tip very close to her throat and an angry man baring all his teeth! Her heart stopped in her chest. For a moment she dared not breathe. But she was released very soon and then her senses only reached her brain after. She choked and suffocated from all the sudden shock.

Éomer was panting heavily. He sheathed his sword and pulled her up. For Béma's sake, he nearly killed her _again_. Collecting himself rather quickly, he straightened up and looked at her apprehensive face. His face scrunched when he saw her room was cluttered with blood-soaked cotton balls. Blotches of crimson trailed along the bottom frills of her dress and her hands were colour of liquid ruby!

"What on Middle-earth are you doing?" He pulled her up from her bed. He could not understand this woman's doing most of the times. She did not seem to possess any intelligence or sense to her own doings. _Unbelievable_.

"I should be asking you that! _What are you doing in my chamber_?" She shot back, fumed by his uninvited presence and the close call to death he just offered. Just to make everything worse, she had dropped her tweezers when he attacked her. And she needed to stand up to find them!

He grabbed her arm again and gave her a hard stare. "What is the fuss with all these blood?" He demanded. Blood was never a good sign for a soldier.

She flung off his hand and refused to face him. She hated his blazing glare. "It is none of your business. Just leave."

"You did _not_ do that when we first met." His eyes followed the trace of the blotches and stains, and he noticed her deliberate movement of hiding her feet. He did not hesitate and reached for them. She shrilled. She kicked protesting while his fingers were locked on her left foot. The pain was exhilarating up her spin. It was almost bearable for all this time until now.

"What is your problem?" Words came out from her clenching teeth.

"You should go to the Houses of Healing." He suggested.

"There is no need for that. There are enough worries at hand." She declined.

He did not bother to look at her anymore but her foot. The red flowing dampened his gloves. The splinter was still deep inside her flesh. He pulled a chair over and rested her foot on it. She watched as he unbuckled his gauntlets and peeled off his gloves. He went over to the table and started washing his hands in the basin. Drying his hands with the cotton towel, he continued to ignore her, knowing she won't agree to what he was about to do. He turned around to remove her foot and rest it again on his knee. He wrapped his fingers around her foot. His thumb crimped around the swollen wound, pressing it down. The red flow continued, running down his thumb, filling the groove between his thumb and nail. The bleeding had not stopped.

"A little warning might help." She cast him a glowering look before breathing in deeply to ease the piercing pain. She did not let out a hiss of pain when he pressed his thumb down. What a stubborn woman.

She threw him a disgusted cast. This man stormed into her room and attacked her. And, how on the Middle-earth did this man walk around in all those armour without making a sound? It was just eeriely creepy.

He lifted his eyes to meet her. Brooding was his face. He seemed to read her thoughts. "**_Quiet horses kick the hardest_**. You might want to bite onto something."

"Like your arm?" She raised her eyebrow.

Shaking his head and ighing at her respond, he returned his focus on her foot. Her eyes followed every move of his. They narrowed when she saw that his fingers were holding the end of the splinter. He gave her a warning look, followed by a small nod. He was ready to pull the splinter out. She returned the nod and looked away.

The pain peaked. She felt her heart pounding at exceptional rate to calm her senses.

He watched as her face etched trying to swallow the pain. He brought the splinter to take a closer look. The edge was pointed like a razor. It could have easily punctured through her foot. He left it on her table, and then wet a towel with some spirit.

"This will sting." He warned. She nodded again. Her face was now more relaxed and showed less resistance after having gone through the worst part.

He pushed her foot upright, brought himself closer and his right arm pressed on her shin and knee. Laying the wet towel in his left hand, he exerted enough pressure to force the excessive liquid into her wound. Her jaw tightened. Her reflex fought with his strength, trying to pull her foot back. But he was strong. She could not move her foot at all. He threw her a grave cast as he continued to push the liquid into the open wound. Her leg started trembling uncontrollably as the waves of pain crashing up along through every bit of her nerve. Her fingers dug into her palm. Cold sweat sent the chill down her spine. It was unbearable.

"It will be over soon." He could hear his own heavy breaths.

The tides of pain gradually came down. Her foot was just numb. She inhaled greedily for fresh air. He removed the sanguineous towel and began wiping the excessive blood. He dabbed some painkiller ointment around her wound. After that he unrolled the bandage and started wrapping it around her foot. His palms and fingers were fully of whitened calluses. She had seen the same on the hands of swordmen and archers. So this man could kill with spears, swords and arrows. To have all three weapons stuck on a body must be an agony. She started to feel some pity for his enemies. Subconsiously, her eyes followed his hands to his face. They were fixed on him. His expression was unreadable. His blond locks curtained the sides of his face. His eyes glinted under his lashes. His skin was mottled with sunburn and grim. The lines on his forehead told her that he always frowned. His brows were thick and straight. There were small hardly visible scars just above them. Beneath his straight nose, his beard ran along the side of his lips, covering his chin and jaw down to his neck but sat just above the protrusion. Valiant and honourable, that was how her brothers described the Horselords.

Sensing her radiating gaze, he raised his only to lock himself in her grey hollow ones. Quickly releasing, it was rude of him. He cleared his throat, "Your bandage is done." He pulled himself back, allowing her foot to drop freely on the chair. He lifted himself off the chair and put on his gloves and gauntlets.

Like awaken from a dream, she felt silly and embarrassed. _What_ was she doing? The withering look on her face did not escape unnoticed. She took a deep breath and uttered, "Thank you." She could not bring herself to look at him again.

"Good night." He made the intention to leave.

"Same to you. I hope we wont' try to kill each other again the next time we meet." Her voice was still loud enough for his ears as his steps got closer to the main entrance.

She did not see that the corners of his lips curled up when he heard those words.

* * *

><p>Note: Tolkien's work mentions Imrahil arrives with grey horses. So, it is likely that his daughter also has a grey horse.<p> 


	6. of Blood and Knife

****All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.****

****Note: Short and depressing. Next chapter would be longer.****

* * *

><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>**

**_Chapter 6: of Blood and Knife  
><em>**

* * *

><p>17 March 3019 T.A.<p>

Minas Tirith

Her hands went up and down in a swift motion, reapplying the bandage around her foot. A dull throb of pain shot up her side when she came to tie the ends together. The grey light of the dawn was streaming through her window.

She must find a stick to help with her throbbed leg. Slowly limped and hopped toward the Houses of Healing, her leg pained her sorely. There were bypassers who very kindly helped her to pace up her painful journey. She reached for the Warden of the Houses of Healing and lied that she strained her ankle. When he offered to examine her foot, she insisted that she would be fine if she had a stick to lean on. Then she, somehow, managed to distract him with the cries of an injured soldier. He busied and forgot about her. She hobbled around the patients, moving unsteadily side to side, finally got hold of a walking stick. Just whilst she let out a sigh of relief, a man emerged from one of the bedchambers. She looked up and saw him. He was clad in a green deer-skin doublet. Green, the shades of his country. It was Éomer.

* * *

><p>Éomer rose early. He was not fond of sleeping recently. War made him restless. He called for his raiment and had a quick breakfast and went to the Houses of Healing to see Éowyn. She was still in a deep sleep. Warden of the Houses of Healing told him she would need to rest for at least seven days for the Black Breath of Nazgul was cast upon her.<p>

Moisture glittered faintly in the corners of his eye when he looked at her. His sister, so fair and brave, was also dread with sorrow and grieve. He bent and whispered, "Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, my sister. I shall ride to the Black Gate tomorrow with seven thousand men. I come to say farewell. You are in the fairest hands. Should I return, we will go back to Rohan, together." He kissed her softly on her brows. She stirred a little but did not wake up. Éomer studied her pale face. He had always been told that Éowyn inherited the grace and look of their grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach. Like beating a stone on his heart, he turned away and closed the door.

The thumping noise from behind caught his attention. It did not take long to figure who it was. There was only one person, in the whole Minas Tirith that was clever enough to roam in the forest with suede shoes. He eyed at her foot.

Lothíriel felt awkwardly uncomfortable with his presence. But he did not say anything. He left. And, they did not meet again.

* * *

><p>Feeling the tide of fortune on her side, her cover had not been burst so far. She managed to convince her father, brothers, Moriel and many more that she sprained her foot. She was not a good liar. She believed it was out of pity that they believed her.<p>

She sat in front of her desk, with a sharpening knife, some sheets of papers, parchments and journals piling. She reached for a chalk, trying to remember Fields of Pelennor on 15 March. She had taken the accounts of many soldiers when she was at their camps. Their act of valour must be remembered. History must be carved in a form of manuscript for those who lived after to see. Her fingers ran on the ivory sheet with swift and skilled strokes. It was when she shaped the enemies that her mind drifted too far away.

The vision before her eyes turned crimson. The rewind of dripping never stopped haunting her since. She lifted her hands and saw it was fully of blood. She saw herself raising the dagger above her head and pierced it into the flesh with all her strength. Blood was everywhere. The screaming of woman stopped but that of the man began and it repeated in a long howl. She had stabbed a man.

She saw herself standing in front of her father, accusing a young crimpled man for a crime he kept denying. There were many that spoke. Few believed her and many more doubted her. Before justice could be done, the woman she saved was found with her throat slit and hung from a tree. It was snowing. Blood dripped onto the ground and seemed blazing red as it touched the snow. It was butchery. Her words were deemed as lies and treachery to stir the distrust among the counsel. The story of her doing was on every lip. Her father did all to spare her. She was stripped of her title. But that day also wounded her pride.

A light touch on her shoulder startled her. She reached for the knife, turned and swung it in anger and only to find Moriel fallen on the floor, shocked with blood completely drained from her face. Lothíriel heard her heart thumping in her chest. She extended her arm and helped Moriel back on her feet.

"My lady, you scared me! What are you doing with that knife? You nearly cut me!" Moriel's eye widened, fear had not ceased from them. She came to check if her lady needed anything else for her foot and perhaps she could bring her lunch. She called out for her a few times but Lothíriel did not answer. She reached for her and then came a knife sweeping at her. For a moment she thought she was dead.

"I am really sorry, Moriel. I must have been too tired and fallen asleep and had a nightmare. I did not mean to hurt you. I will _never_ hurt you." Besides being apologetic, she could not find other words to explain her reaction.

"My lady, you need some rest. I will bring you your lunch then you must rest." Moriel hurried to the kitchen to fetch her some food.

Lothíriel seated herself on the bed, a bit breathless. Her fingers ran through her forehead. It was all sweat. And it felt cold. It was wet. She removed her hand, blood dripping from her fingers.

* * *

><p>Hall of the Tower of Ecthelion<p>

His unusual lumbered steps echoed in the hall, Éomer's fingers followed the drapes of green and white. He bent down, his hands on the ones of his king. The flame of the twelve torches gleamed like glorious deeds. Théoden laid on the bed and was covered with a cloth of gold. His hands were lay on top of his sword, sitting on his chest, whilst his shield was at his feet.

"Uncle," he whispered into those ears that could no longer hear. "We are riding to the Black Gate tomorrow. Bless us from the halls of my fathers." He wished so much that his uncle was here with him, to be proud of his deeds, to lead his Riders again. Théoden's face appeared to be at peace as though he was asleep. Éomer leaned over and ran his hand over his uncle's forehead, the cold diffused through his leather gloves. He then straightened up, took a deep breath and bowed, "Farewell, my king. My father."

* * *

><p>The Citadel<p>

Later.

"Éomer! I heard that you wish to see me!" Imrahil greeted the young king with a wide smile.

"Lord Imrahil, there is a favour that I need to ask of you," The Rohirrim king spoke reservedly.

"If it lies within my power, I will do so. Do speak, my friend." He invited Éomer to sit at the mallorn table.

"It is about Éowyn."

* * *

><p>Fields of Pelennor<p>

18 March 3019 T.A.

The Army of the West assembled on the Fields of Pelennor. The wind was brisky and sky veiled with ivory shade. There stood the hardy men of seven thousand, willing to follow their captains despite the unforeseen perils. Lothíriel's father, Prince Imrahil was leading three and a half thousands men. She was at her father's chamber before dawn came. She watched whilst her brothers equipped their father with armour bearing their house emblem – silver swan-prowed ship, before putting on theirs. Her father's words two days ago replayed in her ears. It was no easy task to withhold her emotions knowing her family would possibly venture to their doom. The sour taste ran down her throat from her nostril.

"Father," she called the man who had loved her from the day she was born. Tears sprang in her eyes. Imrahil embraced his daughter and spoke softly, "Do not grieve, my daughter. If what Mithrandir said is true, then our doom is yet to come. Remember you are always my princess." He touched the swan- embossed belt around her waist. It was the heirloom of her family. It was forged with Khazâd-gold in Lothlorien and was given to Elven-maid Mithrellas by Imrazôr the Númenórean, the father of first Lord of Dol Amroth, Galador. It was then passed down to generations after until it came into her hands, given by her mother shortly before she passed away.

She closed her eyes and tightened her arms about her father. "I must go. The men are waiting for me." He released his embrace and kissed her on her forehead. He descended the Fields of Pelennor carrying his sword and lance.

Trying to hold herself back, her chin trembled as she hugged her brothers. "Protect yourself if you need to. Use it if harms come to you, as it had done so for many summers." Elphir, her eldest brother, reminded her, laying his fingers on the dawn-rose stone ring, the present he gave her when she came of age. He then took her hands and kissed where the fingers reddened by the rubbing of pumice stone. "It is in your wardrobe, the lowest drawer. Remember my words." He leaned over and kissed her before they departed.

She had chosen to watch their departure from the garden of Houses of Healing. Her heart was heavy. She knew she could not follow. The House of Adrahil could not be empty. An heir had to stay. Her fingers tightened on the belt around her waist.

Seven thousand stood, some horsed, some on foot. The banners gleamed like burning will. They started marching forward. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, with Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Éomer of Rohan, Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell, Rangers of the North, together they led Men of the West toward The Black Gate. So it began the March of the Men of the West.


	7. of Gulls and Grains AN

**All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.**

**To be wearing plain dimity and _fustian_ in a room full of satin, velvet and diamonds takes an effort of will = means to be among those higher status (either wealth, fame or reputation) that you takes a great courage; or an insult that you are sticking yourself in a group that you do not deserve to belong.  
><strong>

**Acknowledgement:**

**Thank you so much to Glory Bee, littlemsstrawberry, Sic Vita Est, Rogue's Queen & lifesaver and the many others who have read but forgot to leave any reviews!**

**This is a very long chapter as promised to compensate for the short Chapter 6! This chapter is divided into 2 parts and the good bit is in Part 2. Enjoy! :)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>**

**_Chapter 7: of Gulls and Grains_**

* * *

><p>Minas Tirith<p>

20th March 3019 T.A.

The taciturn atmosphere in the Houses of Healings eased away sooner than expected. The patients were talking lively and laughing at each other's jokes. Lothíriel spoke to a few of the Rohirrim soldiers who received grave injuries, learnt that Éomer came around to talk to them the tonight before he left for Black Gate. It was a reassuring act to return their confidence and faith. Some of them told her that they had plans once they were back in Rohan. She could see pride glittered in their eyes as they spoke.

The loud noise coming from one of the bedchamber caught the attention of most patients in the general hall of Houses of Healing. She recognised that chamber. It was where Lady of Rohan had been resting. A healer-maid exited from her room, seemingly frustrated. Immediately remembering her father's words, Lothíriel laid aside her paper and quill, and enquired a passing maid. It seemed Éowyn no longer wanted to rest in her bed and had asked for the maids to get her clothing so that she could leave her chamber. And she only had a little of her breakfast.

"Lothíriel, there is nobody else I could trust this to. Your cousin is still recovering. I trust in your hands that you will see to Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, will eat and rest as advised by Master Warden. She has a strong will. It will not be easy. But this is a task you must do for me." The voice of her father rang again in Lothíriel mind.

After sending a maid to get the Warden, she knocked on the door of Éowyn's chamber, she asked, "Lady Éowyn, is everything well?"

"I do not wish to eat anymore. Take the food away". The reply was cold and filled with frustration.

"It is wise that you eat more and rest." She just pointed out the obvious.

There was no reply but out of sudden, the door swung open. Her remarks were not too well received. Standing in front of her was Éowyn, cold and proud, like a flower made of steel and ice. Her eyes scanned over Lothíriel from head to toe, her face was fair and stern. She turned around and said with bittersweet in her voice, "No! Bring me some clothes. I should not be lying in bed at this hour!"

"Please, my lady. You must eat enough to have the strength to recover." Lothíriel stepped into her room, urging her to have more food.

"I did _not_ give you the permission to enter my chamber." Her voice was cold as if wrought out of ice. She looked over her with disapproval. Grave and thoughtful was her glance.

"You have been trusted into the care of the Warden and I am no healer but I too, have been given the task to see that you eat and rest. I cannot allow you to leave your bed until the Warden says so." Lothíriel insisted persistently. "At least let get you change and you can then see the Warden about this."

"I should not lie in sloth! I am of the House of Éorl, not a woman of gainsaid in the bed but a maiden hardy enough to stand battle! I fear no death! Release me!" She could barely suppress the anger in her tone. Her voice was hoarse with remembered grieve.

Lothíriel did not expect less from Éowyn. She had figured out Éowyn would not be less stubborn than her brother. So, she met her remarks bravely. "Your prideful desperation has driven you down to self-pity. The unfullfilment you deem in your life and being imperfectly aware of it, you chose a brave path that many men would not. But my lady, courage is not just wielded through _swords_. Strong will indeed runs deep in your veins, but sometimes being alive or a memory is just a fine line. We are all beings of fragility and transience. This is a bitter fact even when you keep denying it."

The words came out unbidden and they sounded harsher than she thought. Éowyn weighed her long and carefully with her eyes. Her chilled face betrayed no emotion. But anger flashed in her eyes. Lothíriel saw the tightness around Éowyn's mouth but she said no more.

The maids entered to bring Éowyn some clothes. Lothiríel helped to dress Éowyn. There was nervous tension between them. She unwrapped the bandage around the Shield-maiden's left arm, only to grimace at the injury the Lady of Rohan received, as if streams of poison were weaved into her fair skin. She cleaned her arm with the herbal water and set it in a sling of linen. "The Warden should be here very soon. You should speak to him." Lothíriel's voice softened. There was no need to salt the wound of this chilled iron heart.

It was after lunch that she learnt that her cousin, Faramir was introduced to the Lady of Rohan and that she could now walk in the garden so that she could look to the east. And they were in each other company again for the next few weeks. Lothíriel must admit that Éowyn was like a flower in beauty and purity. Her core froze by virtue of excessive suffering and constant frustration of the wishes of her heart, but her brightness and beauty were yet to fade.

And looking from the window of Houses, Lothíriel was glad that Éowyn's coldness started to subside and her wounded beauty now restored and surpassed all the flowers and women in Gondor. Faramir was her destined healer. The shieldmaiden, refused to welcome love with a chilled iron heart, now her frost begun to thaw. Faramir's constant attention and his generous and patient care taught her to warm. She was starting to accept her cousin's affection. The passing of her winter would be soon and spring would yield.

But it was not all tidings of good within this few weeks. After five days, on a breezy morning, the supplies from Dol Amroth finally arrived in Minas Tirith but only half of the amount Lothíriel demanded. She was hoping not to push the farmers of Minas Tirith for they had just suffered much loss at this very hour. But it seemed she would have to now. The quartermaster handed her a few letters mainly for her father. But one stood out. It carried the Seal of Trade, an emblem of two gulls crossing at their beaks. Her eyes narrowed. She asked for the ledgers of supply and eventually found out someone else placed a higher bid on the supply she ordered. She gritted her teeth as she clutched the papers in her hands.

Further discussion with Lords Húrin and Elfhelm did not succeed in lighting up her mood either. The war did great damage and it was understandable that not all men were generous. She learnt that there were supplies kept in possession of some nobles who were very reluctant to give up unless attractive offers were made. She went through her belongings in her small chamber. There were gifts which were given to her and she never found the use for; such included many exquisite dresses and jewelleries. There were always gifts that one could never decline. There were gifts that once taken must be repaid in other forms of gratitude. Many offered just to take more from her family.

Perhaps all were not in vain. The eagles brought news of victory. The enemy's weapon had been destroyed. A letter came from her father. They were celebrating their victory at the Field of Cormallen and would be returning to Minas Tirith by the end of the month and coronation of the king would happen on 1st May. The dark days were over. Or, not yet.

She laid all the clothes on her bed and scattered the jewelleries on her desk. Ten dresses were new and untouched. They would fetch good bidders and then she would be able to feed every mouth for the next few weeks. Then beneath her drawer, it laid the sea blue Elven dress of her mum. She reached for it and clung it close to her heart. Her face arched and her heart pained as she remembered her passing. Emotions rushed back like old stories. She could feel the sour taste in her mouth and the strain around her eyes. She was so absorbed in her thought that she seemed unaware of another person's approach.

"Lady Lothíriel?" There was a faint knock on the door. It was Moriel. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and inhaled deeply to regain her composure, putting the elven dress back into the drawer,"Yes, enter." Her voice was still a little shaky.

The door slid slowly. "My lady, it is lunch time." Her eyes were then drawn to the outfits of different colours lying on the bed. "What is with these dresses?" The young maid asked, caressing the silk fabric. She had always been fascinated by the glossy dresses. As a servant, she never had a good dress and it was her dream that one day her wardrobe would be filled with various dresses of silk and velvet.

"They are going to the Auction House today." Lothíriel began folding the dresses back into their parcels. Many mouths needed feeding. So were the three thousands men marching their way back from the Black Gate.

"But, my lady, these are the finest dresses in Dol Amroth, made by the most gifted tailors. It would be a great shame-"

Lothíriel interrupted her before she could finish. She knew Moriel was fond of the dresses. "Moriel, desperate needs drive desperate measures." Her voice was stern. With the help of her young maid, they headed to the Auction House and were surprised to see a good number showed up. The news from Cormallen had certainly turned things to bright. People of Gondor would have a king now and that was worth celebrating.

She was delighted with her effort. She hastened to her room. She still limped a bit. Her foot was yet to fully recover but she believed she would be back to her old self by the time her father and brothers returned. Coins of gold, silver and copper chinked as they hit the table. Lothíriel started calculating the fortune she made today.

"I cannot believe they sold so well! But it is a shame that you had to give the dresses away." Moriel exclaimed. She danced happily around the bed but soon her voice then faded into disappointment. She still very much desired some of the dresses.

"Moriel, there are times that grains are more important than dresses. Now, go and fetch the Lord Húrin for me!" Lothíriel busied herself with the coins, trying to calculate the amount she needed to buy the provisions. Moriel sulked and left for The Citadel. With the help of Lord Húrin, a difficult task soon became much easier. The owners of surplus supply were summoned and tempted by the generous offers, the deal went incredibly smooth. She also sent for more supplies from Dol Amroth and of course this time with a higher cost. She had no doubt that someone had set his will against hers to limit the amount of supply she could get. After all the spending, it surprised Lothíriel to learn that many coins of gold and silver were still left. How it came to that a dress or a piece of jewellery was worth more than a bag of flour was beyond her.

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><p>30th April 3019 T.A.<p>

Then came the news that the Men of the West were only a league from Minas Tirith. Joyful were the people in Minas Tirith when the scout brought the news. Lothíriel dashed her way to the Houses to deliver the news to her cousin, only to stop to see the happy dénouement of Éowyn's plight with her cousin. Faramir had continuously showed his affection for the Lady of Rohan.

"Lord Faramir. Lady Éowyn. I come to deliver the good news. Men of the West are coming home. They are only one league away." she bowed and greeted them.

Faramir smiled gently at her, "This is indeed good news, my cousin. The Middle-earth is free from the shadow and we will have peace from now."

"Lady Lothíriel," Éowyn spoked as she took the younger woman's hands, "I have only learnt lately that you are a cousin of Faramir. I am sorry for my reaction that day."

Lothíriel had put the rather unusual encounter with Éowyn behind her mind since she had been occupied with the shortage of food for the past few weeks. She quickly bowed again to Éowyn, "No, my lady. Please forgive me for my crude comments that day. Those were rude words." She was now deeply embarrassed to be reminded of her harsh words. There was no need for them. She should have tried to understand the Shieldmaiden of Rohan and where she was coming from.

"There is nothing to forgive. Call it a draw." Éowyn smiled. She was not a woman of grudge. Some words of Lothíriel did hit her when she came to think about them at night.

Lothíriel was astounded with the soft side of The Lady of Rohan. Éowyn's change of heart was like the passing of winter and her acceptance of her cousin's love resembled the coming of spring in her life. They soon enjoyed each other company with the discussion about managing household and of course the mention of Éomer eventually came up.

"You have seen Éomer, haven't you?" The grasp on Lothíriel arms tightened with excitement. "I did not see him before he left. How was he?" Éowyn could not hide the concern she had for her only family.

"He came to see you a few times a day while you were still resting in bed, my lady." Despite Lothíriel's strong disliking for the King of Rohan, it was unjust to speak ill of him. Her personal opinion of him should not affect the worry and love he showed for his sister. "He seemed to be in good health after all."

"My father and brothers speak highly of him." She said again but was then uncertain if that was necessary.

"So you both are in good terms?" Faramir raised his eyebrow. Lord Elfhelm mentioned a few times unconsciously that the King of Rohan had some difficult dealing with certain lady from Dol Amroth.

"Good terms? Why on the Middle-earth I should be in good terms with _him_? An intolerable man he is!" Lothíriel blurted out, standing up and stumping around angrily. Once she was gladful that he helped her with Hannor and her foot but when she came to think of it - good terms with someone who tried to kill her twice was too much to ask. Releasing her disrespectful behaviour before the sister of the man she despised just moment ago, she became even more embarrassed, quickly she corrected herself, "I am sorry, Lady Éowyn. It is not my intent to speak ill of your brother. We did have some fair exchange of opinions. Your brother and I failed to come to the same conclusion most times."

"So I've heard." Faramir said in a soft tone. "Perhaps one day you both would come to the same agreement."

She bit her lower lip, annoyed that she went spatting out words before making the rationale out of them in her brain. She drew a deep breath and said in a calm manner, "But my personal opinion of him should not matter in any case. He is still a man of great deeds."

"My lady," Éowyn laughed. She was first confused by the young woman's reaction and then stunned by her blunt but honest opinion of her brother. She knew her brother well. Not many dared to speak of him in this fashion. Éomer was not the friendliest person on Middle-earth. "You speak only true words. Éomer has his moments. I shall not think ill of you, Lady of Dol Amroth." She laughed again heartily. The young woman was very much to her liking – honest and true to her heart.

In the late afternoon, Lord Húrin had sent for Faramir and Éowyn to be ready and join him the next day at the Gateway to welcome the return of the Captains of the West and the coronation of King Elessar. The host had camped on the Field of Pelennor. The evening was rejoiced with the safe return of the company of the West. Many women and children rushed to the camps to meet their husbands and fathers and they embraced each other tightly. Tears of happiness were on the faces of many adults and children.

Lothíriel saw the crowd cheering and heard cries from her window. A faint smile lit up her face. She had to choose to stay in her room to await the news of her family. It was not long when a servant came knocking on her door, informing that her family had settled at their camp and her father had sent for her.

She quickened her steps when she got closer to her father's tent. Emotion came rushing like waves the moment she entered and saw her father and brothers. Tears sprang up in her eyes as she embraced her father rightly, "Father!"

"Lothíriel," Imrahil stroke gently on his daughter's head. "We're safe, my love. Peace is all we have now."

"Father!" She released her hands and was still crying of joy. Tears kept rolling down her cheeks. She went on to hug her brothers.

"Lothíriel, cry no more." Elphir kissed her on her forehead and wiped away her tears. "This is the hour of celebration. No more tears, Sister."

"Elphir, I prayed every day for the safe return of our family. My prayers are answered. These are tears of joy, Brother." She smiled. He hugged her again and whispered, "Were you fine when we were gone?"

She smiled again at him, "Yes, Brother. There had not been much troubles." Suddenly remembering the letters addressed to her father, she broke from her brother's embrace and retrieved a few letters from her pocket. "Father, these are for you." She handed them into his hands.

"Gulls? Seal of Trade?" Erchirion frowned upon recognising the seal on one of the letters. Elphir shared the same look of concern.

"Hmmm," Imrahil broke the seal and quickly scanned through the content. His brows drew close. "Amrothos, take Lothíriel back to her room. I will see you both at dinner table."

"Is there a problem, Father?" Amrothos asked, quickly forgotten what his father had just told him.

"What is it, Father?" Asked his daughter this time.

"No problem, just take Lothíriel back to her room. I will speak to you both later." He gestured them to leave the room. Elphir and Erchirion went close to examine the letter. Lothíriel was hurried back to her room by her third brother, reluctantly. She watched the door closed behind them and somehow felt her father was hiding something from her.

The dinner table went on with discussion of household matters but no mention of the content of the letter. Lothíriel believed it was no matter of her concern. At least it stayed that way until two days later.

**TBC**

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><p><strong>The Ever Lengthy Author's Notes<strong>

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><p><strong><em>Story-wise<em>**

**_Pumice stone_**: A volcanic rock used to remove dry and excess skin such as callus

**_Title of princess_**: This title can be apparently stripped. It happens to Queen Elizabeth I, Mary I and the late Princess Diana (1995).

**_House of Adrahil_**: Adrahil I found Dol Amroth. Son of Adrahil, Imrazôr, married the Elven –maid Mithrellas. Their son Galador was the first lord of Dol Amroth. Adrahil I was already known as the Prince and lived in Belfalas. Thefore, it makes sense that their House should be named after Adrahil I. They still speak Sindarin in Dol Amroth.

**_Swan Knights_**: They arrived on 9th March in Minas Tirith, led by Princess Imrahil who also rescued Faramir and removed the poisoned arrow tip from his chest.

**_Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos_**: They are the three sons of Imrahil, Lothiriel is his only daughter and youngest child. Unless I have missed it, there is little information of their whereabouts and roles in the War of The Ring. I would welcome any opinion on this.

**_Treatment of bruises_**: Bruises are best treated when fresh before the blood has time to settle. The harder you press, the more it hurts of course, but the sooner you will get better. If doubtful, please ask anyone that practices martial art.

**_Walking stick_**: As the name says. Design and appearance, please refer to HBO's Game of Thrones when Lord Stark carries one.

**_Horses and apples_**: These magnificent animals have strong preference for anything that is sweet. I have offered them some carrots, apples and pears. They never disagree!

**_Proverbs and sayings_**: Shamelessly borrowed from lotrplaza. All credits from use go to the respective authors.

**_Ancient painkillers and anaesthetics_**: Based on a medical journal.

**_Hurtsickles_**: Also known as _Bachelor's Button_ with a very bright colour sapphire blue. They do indeed symbolise blessing. Not something I made up.

**_Saddle, stirrup, bridle, halters, reins, martingales and breastplate_**: All the accessories you need to put on a horse before riding (to war).

**_Imrahil's wife_**: Her description has been completely left out by Tolkien. I can only assume she is dead.

**_Hindfoot_**: Midsection of foot where the arch is.

**_Map of Minas Tirith_**: This is described according to The _Atlas_ of Tolkien's _Middle_-_Earth_ by Karen Wynn Fonstad

**_Éomer addressing Théoden as "Father"_**: Théoden calls Éomer his son before they ride to the Battle of Pelennor

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><p><strong><em>About Armour and Shields<em>**

**_Armour_**: The protective gear that one wears in battle, usually covers head to toes. Helmet (head), shoulder plates/guards (shoulders), chest plates (torso), leggings (legs), gauntlets (arms), gloves (hands) and boots (feet). There are three categories of armour: light, medium and heavy. Armour is significant as it tells the heritage (blood) and history of a warrior. Éomer's helmet is carved in Rohirric that says Éomer, son of Éomund.

**_Light Armour_**

Light armour includes robes, tunics, dresses, usually wore by those who do not come into melee range in a combat. Typical examples are lore masters, wizards and minstrels. Gandalf and Saruman wear light armour but Gandalf soloed the Balrog in melee range so I have no comments. Legolas appears to be wearing light armour in Jackson's Trilogy. Light armour is usually made of linen, cotton, silk or wool. Tunics are also wore under medium or heavy armour and tell the status of someone. Théodred's tunic beneath his armour carries embroidery around his collar which means he is the blood of the ruler, the heir to the throne, or a prince/princess or king. This is later observed during Aragorn's coronation, at which Faramir is wearing a velvet tunic with embroidery to mark him as the Prince of Ithilien.

**_Medium Armour_**

Medium armour includes those made of hardened leathers with little metallic accessories. Gems and stones are sometimes used to enhance the physical appearance. Fibres of wood are one of the common reinforcement agents. Metallic frames are sometimes lined to provide a better shape and protection. Aragorn wears medium armour in Jackson's Trilogy. The White-tree gauntlet that he wears after Boromir's death is also medium armour.

**_Heavy Armour_**

Heavy armour includes those forged from ores, they can be either iron, gold, copper, bronze, silver, mithril or anything other ores in the Middle-earth. These are mainly designed for melee combat. The Gondorians wear embossed plated armour, designed to function as the body moves in combat, as seen in the charge of Gondorians to retake Osgiliath. Elrond, Gil-galad, Isildur, Elendil and all their front line soldiers of The Last Alliance wear heavy armour during the Siege of Barad-dur.

The heavy armour of Rohirrims is different. They wear a chainmail beneath their heavy armour which is usually attached to the body by buckles. Théoden and Éomer appear to wear a shirt, a deerskin tunic, then chainmail, and finally heavy armour on top. You can see this clearly when Gamling helps Théoden to put his armour on in Jackson's The Two Tower. This kind of armour does not slip or fly when you ride on horse and is usually lined with hardened leathers.

The only noticeable heavy armour gloves in the movie are those of the Witch-king of Angmar. (Very impressive design I must say!)

One usually wear gloves or mittens when he/she wields a weapon like a sword. It is unlikely to be bare hand as sweat will make the grip hard and slippery.

**_Shields_**

Shields are usually made from mixed materials of woods and any types of ingots. The shields that Elrond's elves and Faramir's men bear are consider heavy shields which are forged only from metallic ingots. The shield that Éowyn used to block the attack of the Witch-king is smaller and made of wood reinforced with a metal disc at the centre, it is usually called shield or light shield.

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><p><em>Note: I will cover cloaks, weapons, jewelleries when I have a bit more time.<em>


	8. of Boards and Ales

**All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.**

**To be wearing plain dimity and _fustian_ in a room full of satin, velvet and diamonds takes an effort of will = means to be among those higher status (either wealth, fame or reputation) that you takes a great courage; or an insult that you are sticking yourself in a group that you do not deserve to belong.  
><strong>

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><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>**

**_Chapter 8: of Boards and Ales_**

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><p>1st May 3019 T.A.<p>

It came the greatest day of Third Age. All things were now made ready in the City. Tables were laid with breads, butter, selection of red cheese, dishes of chicken, ducks, boars and beef, salted meats, roasted vegetables of various kinds and crunchy dried fruits. And of course, a good fest always had to come with fine wines, stouts and ales.

There was great concourse of people. News had travelled to all parts of Gondor. Most that managed to come to the City within a few days. Women and children were seen everywhere. They returned to their home laden with flowers. The most gifted the harpers of Dol Amroth also came. They were known to harp most skilfully in all the land. Musicians were on their viols, flutes and silver horns accompanied by the clear-voiced Lebennin singers.

The men of Lord Húrin laid a barrier across the entrance. The soldiers were clad in silver and black and long swords were drawn. Faramir, Húrin and other Gondor captains, Éowyn, Elfhelm and the Riders of Rohan stood before the barrier. Both sides of the Gate were pressed with people and garlands of flowers. Finally, Gondor had a king. The standard of the King unfurled and flew proudly in the air.

In the days that followed his crowning King Elessar pronounced his judgements on his throne in the Hall of the King. Many were brought before him to receive his praise and reward for their valour. It was not until the last moment that Imrahil brought his children before his king. There were muttering among the audience. Many did not seem to recognise Imrahil's daughter but shared the conclusion that she definitely looked familiar.

"King Elessar, I hereby, introduce my youngest child, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," Imrahil led his daughter to face the King. She kneeled before and greeted him.

"Please rise, my child. Lord Imrahil, little have you spoke of your precious daughter!" The King cried and laughed. The young woman before him rose.

"Lady Lothíriel has very kindly offered her service to assist me in household matters, King Elessar," Lord Húrin stepped forward to praise the young woman's effort.

"There was only little I could offer, my lords." She bowed to both older men partly to avoid the eyes directing onto her from all corners and also to shield herself away from the penetrating glare, that could burn through her flesh, from the side of the King. She noticed his presence the moment she entered the Hall of Kings. That unmistakenly huge and tall physique that towered most people around was difficult to miss.

Éomer was standing with the crowd next to Aragorn when Imrahil approached with his children. He nodded to Imrahil and his sons to acknowledge their presence but then when his fourth child came into his sight, it was something he least expected. The dirt and grime were gone from her face. The porcelain complexion was not something he could relate to an untamed woman who went barking outside his tent. Moreover, she was Imrahil's daughter! An insufferable woman whom he tried to kill twice and her father was his friend, comrade.

Imrahil took his daughter's hand and turned to the group next to his king.

" Lothíriel, these are my friends and my brothers-in-arm!" Imrahil was overjoyed to introduce his daughter to the men whom he fought together with. His daughter, however, was trying to keep a discrete presence, appearing humble along each introduction until they came before Éomer.

"This is the man I always talk about, Lothíriel! The valiant and fierce warrior from Rohan – King Éomer!" Imrahil embraced his friend, excited to see each other again. "I believe you both have not met." Imrahil continued. Lothíriel just wished his father could let her go at this very right moment. She lowered her head enough to completely hide herself from his sight.

"There are others who fought bravely too, Lord Imrahil," Éomer bowed briefly at his friend's compliment. "So, she is your daughter." He said with a raised eyebrow. "To your surprise, my lord, your daughter and I _have_, indeed, met. How is your foot, Lady Lothíriel?"

Fuelled by the mocking tone in his voice, she raised her head to meet him bravely eyes to eyes. She felt herself gritting her teeth beneath her calm mask. "Yes, of course, we _have_. And my foot is fine. I can walk unaided now. I _truly_ appreciate your concern, my lord." Each word was forced out from her teeth. She somehow did not understand the need to mention her foot in front of her father and brothers and all others that were present. "Father, Lord Éomer was very kind to offer his assistance when I strained my foot." Whilst trying hard not to burst her own lie, she kept her hard stare on the blonde

"I did not know you and King Éomer were acquainted, Daughter! Then, you are no strangers!" Said Imrahil in a fruity tone.

"_Indeed_," replied the young king. He was clearly aware of the fomenting tension between the young woman and him.

And, she was pretty certain he was enjoying every second of it. After taking a few deep breaths to regain her equanimity, she said in her most polite tone, "Father, my lords, if you could please excuse me." She bowed and quickly took her leave for she could not stand that man any longer. She made for the entrance, getting herself a glass of wine on the way, and found a rather empty corner just next to the large doors. Sipping the wine slowly, she let out a heavy sigh.

"What is a beautiful lady like you doing here, Lady Lothíriel? You should be inside celebrating it with your father." A melodious voice came from behind.

"Lord Legolas," she bowed at the fair elf, trying to find an explanation for her escape. "The chattering is not everyone's cup of tea."

"My lady, do not let the history curtain and blind your mind. Your future is bright." He said suddenly out of context of the current conversation, looking at the sky.

"I have no cue of your words, Master Elf." She rapidly declined to comprehend his words.

"There will be one day that you will have to unfold it and tie the loose ends." He turned back to her. "I wish you joy and happiness." Then the elf left, leaving her to her own thoughts. Some happy cheering was then drawing her attention. Sighing heavily again, she thought she had sighed too much lately, maybe she should enjoy the celebration. What worst could have come after the Dark Lord had been defeated! She made her way around the guests and came to discover the origin of the cheering. She saw the little figures cast in bronze on the iron board. They were playing chess. The older Swan Knight did not have much luck against the young Rohirrim soldider.

"Alas, my lady, it seems luck has gone from me. I have not won for three times in a row! Three pints down the throat!" the old knight laughed sheepishly as Lothíriel leaned forward and took a closer look.

"Nah, my lord, there is a chance that you might still win," she smiled back at him. "Maybe I could be of some help here. So the loser takes a pint? I hope you don't mind, Lord Éothain." She turned to the young Rohirrim and gestured at the chess board.

"Lady Lothíriel! Of course! No good man should decline a good lady's company but be warned that the best trained me!" Éothain exclaimed heartily and winked at her.

She grinned at him and took the seat opposite him. The cheering came louder behind her back as the Swan Knights had gathered around them. Lothíriel made a few moves and Éothain followed accordingly to win but soon he found the pawn was there! Right in front of him!

He scratched his head and drew a silly smile on his young face, "And pawn. When it comes to pawns, I am all lost!"

She snickered with full certainty of winning, "Oh Valar! You must the shame of the cavalry!"

He chuckled at her remark and laughed his heart out, seemingly not offended by it, "I have always been a laughing stock, my lady!"

"What do your superiors do with you?" She made another move and he did not stand of chance at beating her.

"They just choose to ignore me, mostly, most of the time! And, my lady, _you are impossible_!" He scratched his head again, pointing his finger at her, not believing that he had just completely lost to a woman.

"I see you are against the finest of Dol Amroth," Amrothos' voice came from behind. He tapped his hand on Éothain's shoulder and smiled at him, "I must say you do not have a chance of winning at all, Horsemaster!" Éothain and he had become good friends on the journey to Black Gate, not only because they shared many in common of their characters – being always cheerful and could even laugh at the very worst moments in life. They soon became close and spent most of the time, sharing jokes and stories of their lives.

"A loser does what a loser does!" Éothain lifted a mug and gulped it empty. More cheering rang across the hall as soon as he finished the pint.

"Éothain, you should watch your steps and your pint." A deep voice rang behind them. Lothíriel would not have forgotten that voice, how could she forget the owner of that voice, whom beyond her understanding, tried to kill her twice and burst her cover in front of her father.

All turned around to find Éomer, either grinning or smiling, eyeing down at the board set.

"Lord Éomer!" Éothain let out another cheerful laugh. He smirked sheepishly and turned to Lothíriel, "My lady, perhaps, you could try to _win_ my mentor."

Her eyes followed as he made his way to them. She slowly moved her fingers on the board, rearranging the pieces, her cast lifted from the board and she stared right into his greenish amber eyes, "Perhaps,_ win_ is a bad choice of word. How about _beat_? After all I have little intention of _winning_ your king. Three rounds and two pints for each round lost. What say you?"

The King of Rohan raised his eyebrow at the challenge. The crowd cheered again to encourage their king.

"I will be honoured to regain the lost reputation." He threw his men a look then sat in front of her.

"Aye!" His men cheered again behind him.

Hence, the match began. Things were in Lothíriel's favour until the Horselord made unexpected move. It was not in her calculation that he would have gone that way. And it all went ill from that point onwards and she found herself in a very vulnerable position. She had lost to the King of Rohan.

"Well played, my lord. So, a loser does what a loser does!" Repeating Éothain's words, she gestured to one of the ale-serving servants and retrieved two mugs from the serving plate and placed them in front of her. His eyes watched her carefully. She sniffed the first pint with briefly closed eyes. Appeared to be indulged in the aroma of the ale, she said, "Minas Tirith brews good ale." With that she raised the mug in front of his eyes, "To Rohan!" She titled her head backwards and in a slow motion drained the first mug down her throat.

Éomer showed no reaction to her craze. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve and aimed for the second mug but Amrothos pressed it down with his hand and cast a warning look at her. "Lothíriel, I think that is enough."

"No, Amrothos. You live up to your sword and I live up to my words. Besides, two pints is not enough to bring me down. And these might be the _only_ two pints I have to drink!"Looking at her brother, she pushed his hand away rudely. Then she glared at the blonde man in front of her, lifting the second mug, her eyes never left him. "To Gondor!" She brought the second pint close to her mouth and gulped it. Once it was empty, she turned the ivory mug upside down and grinned, "Empty to the last drop." She bowed. She did not appear to be tipsy or sober. Just a tint of pink shade on her cheeks that betrayed she had drank.

"Aye!" The crowd cheered at the dark-haired woman. Many soldiers, young and old, had gathered around them to share the fun. They too, drank among each other, chatting happily.

"Well played." Éomer said as a matter of fact, while repositioning the pieces to start a few match. He was able to conceal the astonishment that the woman in front of him had brought upon him.

"Thank you, if that was meant to be a compliment." She sat down again in front of him. She was almost certain that she smelled sarcasm in his words.

The second round began. The tension on the board was shifting from one end to the other. The crowd watched with great enthusiasm, following the fingers and the pieces carefully. Some of them were bewildered with mouth opened. Other simply forgot that they had some ales in their hands at all. Every step on the board was rewarded with constant cheering. Éomer scrunched his brows and the corner of his lips twined, his chin resting on his left hand. This woman managed to corner him and lock him from all directions. He was outmatched. He had only ever lost to his uncle and his cousin. He rolled his eyes in disbelief. Letting out an angry snort, he waved down a servant and grabbed two mugs. She smiled as she observed him. Her lips curled up faintly. She could not help the sense of victorious power growing inside her.

"For Valar's sake, Lothíriel! You've won!" Amrothos exclaimed, jumping like a small child. The Swan Knights who joined the crowd, rejoiced their lady's victory. They all raised their mugs and drank merrily.

"Rohan breeds courageous men," she said, returning the same sarcastic tone he cast on her before. Moreover, she was still very unhappy about his mention of her foot in front of her father.

"To the victorious!" He raised the mug and emptied one after another easily. He could see the amusement twinkled in her eyes. There was no mistake that she was mocking him with her compliment. She was the most disagreeable human he had ever met. He never liked defeat in any form. Now to be outmatched by her simply boiled his blood.

"Shall we?" She asked softly. Her voice was still flooded with joy.

"Of course, my lady," he sat down again, trying to formulate a strategy in his mind not to lose again. Their final match caught more attention. The company of Aragorn, Arwen, Legolas, Imrahil, Elphir, Erchirion, Éowyn and Faramir observed them from a distance, save Gimli who found ale more interesting than board game.

"Lord Imrahil, your daughter is impressive. It looks like she is giving my brother a hard time!" Aragorn laughed as he watched the crowd howled in excitement while the final match continued.

"My king, modesty is not Lothíriel's best virtue. She spares no man, I am afraid." He was for a moment concerned with the rivalry between his daughter and the young king he sensed when they were introduced just now. He was relieved for a moment. There was no need to create any tension between Gondor and Rohan. Or maybe he was relieved too soon.

Lothíriel soon grew reckless. She had not anticipated Éomer would have taken the risk and able to turn the table. She was leading the match before and was winning. But her over-confidence blinded her. She failed to see his tactic to bait her and she foolishly raised and fell for it. She gritted her teeth whilst more of his pieces advanced to hers, removing more and more of hers on the way. And she was surrounded. The Rohirrims cheered loudly for their leader.

Punching the table lightly, she flagged down a servant and took another two mugs. Her cheeks reddened more with the anger of defeat. She let out a sigh of disapproval.

"Dol Amroth breeds extraordinary women." Éomer rose and clapped at the brother and sister. It was a close match. Her tactic was not easy to derive but her eager to beat him was all written on her facial expression. It was not difficult to read her face and it did not take long to learn what her next moves would be.

She eyed him with a measuring look. Her eyes narrowed. She did not seem to take compliments in any form very well. Amrothos was in total shock and by the time he realised Lothíriel had lost the game, it was too late. She had finished the first mug.

"You lost." Amrothos muttered to himself, looking very disappointed.

"_Thanks_, Amrothos! I don't need reminding." She snapped at him breathlessly partly because she was angry with herself, for being overconfidence and for underestimating her opponent and partly because of the mocking compliment. But still she had her reputation to live up to. And, at least there was no excuse not to drink. She raised the second mug to her mouth, "To Lord of Rohan!" She took her time to drain the ale. The pumping motion danced along and down her fair neck. "Empty." She turned the mug bottom up. Éomer stood up to acknowledge the courage of the woman in front of him simply by a nod.

"Impressive!" A loud applaud came from the entrance. All heads turned to the source of that praise. There stood a man dressed in a noble fashion with jewellery of glittering golf and silver on him. Lothíriel did not bother to turn or look. She knew that voice well. So well that she could remember it for the rest of her life even if she became deaf.

Just a few steps away stood her two elder brothers. Elphir made the intention to rush to their sister but Erchirion stopped him, "We cannot protect her forever, Elphir. She will have to learn to stand for herself."

"Erchirion, if your brain is still in working order, the last time when she stood her ground, it did not turn out as good as expected." Elphir turned around and said to his younger brother.

"Brother, have some faith in our sister. She can do better than you think!" Erchirion insisted.

While all standing around the board table, Éomer immediately saw her jaw muscles buckled up and her eyes narrowed. Every air and breath around her was radiating with intense anger. He came to stood next to her and saw the nobleman coming to their direction.

"Good day to you, my lady, my lord," the noble seemed extremely polite.

Lothíriel turned herself slightly only to glimpse the noble over her shoulder. She said no words but only nodded.

"To be wearing plain dimity and _fustian_ in a room full of satin, velvet and diamonds takes an effort of will, doesn't it, my lady?" The nobleman laughed contemptuously. She knew of the ironic truth he spoke of. "I must talk to your father and King Elessar. Enjoy the evening, my lady." He bowed with a smirk on his face and headed towards the king.

Éomer threw Lothíriel a quick look. She seemed surprisingly calm to most but the small act of biting her lip did not escape his eyes. Then another man in front of him and bowed. A man perhaps of similar age as him. Dressed in shiny silk, tidy and shaved, too clean to be among those that clad in armour. Another nobleman. He did not recall knowing this man.

"Lady Lothíriel, it is nice to finally see you again." The man directed his greeting to the dark-haired woman standing next to him. Now she eyed the man in silk with disgust.

"You should go and join your father." She responded with icy tone.

"The music is starting, perhaps I could have the honour to dance with you, my lady?" He instead preferred to continue annoying her.

All the eyes surrounding them seemed to fix her, waiting for her to speak. It was very impolite to decline a man's invite to a dance so she was taught. But there was no way on the Middle-earth that she would agree to dance with this young nobleman for he was his son. She had just been insulted by his father and now he asked her for a dance? There was iron certainty that this man carried no intelligence in his brain.

She saw the harpers were in position. She had to dig a way of out this and many underestimated her capability. She always did the least expected. She could not help but lit a sardonic smile on her face when she turned to face the young nobleman, "Thank you, my lord." Just when he reached his hand out to take hers, she quickly turned away to face the Rohirrim standing next to her, leaving the young noble looking awkwardly embarrassed with his hand stuck in mid air.

"Do you dance, Lord Éomer?" Raising her eyebrow, she stretched her hand out toward him. And of course, all the eyes now shifted on him. Éothain looked at him with great enthusiasm.

"Not if I can help it." He replied calmly and bowed to her, and she spread her dress and bowed back. Some whistles came from his Riders behind him. This youngest child of Imrahil was truly an eye-opener. Fetish and intrepid.

The soothing waves of tunes started to fill the hall. Éomer took her hand and led her to the floor. Many still looked at them in great shock and wonder and murmured between themselves, including her brothers and his sister.

"Is that Lothíriel with the King of Rohan?" Erchirion pulled the sleeve of his eldest brother, not believing his eyes.

"It is indeed." Elphir snorted.

"Maybe Lady Lothíriel and my brother have finally come to the same agreement." Éowyn whispered to Faramir.

"Maybe it is not such a bad thing, my lady."The Prince of Ithilien replied, smiling.

Whilst some were busy muttering among themselves about the dramatic scene she had just created, Lothíriel was not entirely relaxed with her steps. Her movement was stiffer than usual and she had not spoken any words since they began dancing.

"Do you prefer to stay deadly quiet, while dancing, my lady?" His deep voice rang from above.

"Yes, my lord. Under most circumstances, I have strong preference to be unsociable and taciturn. From my previous exxperience it has proved to be so much more enjoyable, don't you agree?" She titled her head up and stared sharply at him.

"Of course. Even if one's partner is barely tolerable." He replied.

Her brows drew closer hearing his reply. She clenched her teeth. She was stupid to dig a hole and jump into it herself. She tore her eyes off him and fixed them on his broad shoulder on which she rested her hand upon. She could not help but notice that he was wearing green cape with thick and detailed embroidery of gold and silver, clasped with the brooch of silver horsehead on his reddish brown armour. A sense of guilt ran through her briefly. He was the King of Rohan. What on the Middle-earth had she done to drag him into this mess today? She must have lost her mind.

The earthy scent of grass radiated from him and whirled around her as they danced. On the other hand, fuelled by her anger moment ago, her breaths, unlike most perfumed women, were mellow of wine and beer. Her scent filled his nostrils as they made another turn.

"You drank too much." He said in a low tone as he extended his arm behind her back and brought her closer.

"It is not for you to judge, my lord. Unlike women, _some _men are far too easy to make judgement." She hissed back whilst following his lead.

"How so?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Humorless horseheathers, in my rather limited experience." She looked at him with a confident smile then eyed at the young nobleman standing at the corner, whom she just ridiculed moments ago.

"One of these days, my lady, you will have to really watch your capable tongue." He warned her.

"That day is yet to come, Lord Éomer. Many are in uncertainties." She replied in a rather happy and lively tone. Her movement was more fluid now and her mood seemed better.

"Perhaps, it must be pretty certain and worth mentioning that Prince Imrahil is your father, _Princess_." He said dryly.

"Was." She refused to look at him entirely, turning her glance back to his shoulders. "I _was_ Princess. But this does not matter anymore." Her steps halted very briefly, so short for most audience to notice. She cursed in a low tone not enough for him to catch what she was saying. Then he felt her grip of his hand abruptly tautened. Her back tensed and her muscles flinched. He whirled around and soon understood. He saw the father of the noble young man was standing with his son among the close crowd observing them. Everywhere they moved, the father and son pair went closer.

His arm around her slender waist tightened, drawing them closer to each other. He bent his head only low enough to whisper in her ears, "Easy."

His breath was blowing on her face and down to her neck. She was not a woman of small build after all some blood of Numenor flew within her. But being so close to him made her undersized. His strength illuminating from his pure physique was overpowering. Somehow part of her relaxed when he whispered to reassure her. Gazing back at him in wonder, she beamed at him as they floated and swirled on the floor with the fluttering and majestic tunes continued to ring from harps, flutes and viols, under the fingers of the talented musicians.

**TBC**


	9. of Said and Unsaid

**Meaning of the Sindarin names: Saewon = Venomous; Glavror = Apt to babble**

**Appreciation directed to : Estel la Rodeuse, Sic Vita Est & littlemsstrawberry!  
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><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

**_Chapter 9: of Said and Unsaid_**

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><p>The discomfort and uneasiness between them seemed to cease very gradually. Not many words were exchanged since his last whisper. His gaze landed on the pair of father and son as they moved with the music. She pulled her head upward to survey him. He did not seem to have notice.<p>

Visually he was the only man with the most striking appearance and personality she had ever met. Countless compliments she had heard about her fair brothers. But he was so different. His large eyes shone with many different shades of blue in the well-lit hall. They were always stern and keen, remind her of those of a predator. She did not know a man's eyes could be so beautiful. His shoulder-length hair, now brushed and conditioned to a better state than she recalled in the past occasions, glittered with golden sheen. A colour she very much envied.

With soot and dirt gone from his face, his tanned complexion told the some stories of this man who most likely spent most of his days under the sun. She had observed his face before when he tended her foot without her permission. But the sun ray now brought out the many distinct features of his face which failed to show under dim candle-light. There were many tiny brown freckles on his tanned face, scattering across his forehead and cheeks. His well-cut face was complimented with his lips. She also recollected from their first meeting that he had an impressive collection of scars. He was a powerful man, not just physically, his strength radiating intensively from him even when he did not speak. For a moment, within her sense of disliking of him, a tiny glow of admiration for this proud man surfaced.

"Lord Éomer, how would you rate pride? A fault or virtue?" She asked subconsciously, not aware of the obvious mark of admiration in her voice.

"That would depend who is asking the question, my lady."

"I am purely seeking your opinion regarding this definition, my lord."

"A fault can easily swap into a pride if the right moment comes." He responded with a neutral tone, Then he added, "Are you trying to find a fault in me?"

"Every man has faults." She answered as a matter of state.

"A fault only stays a fault if it cannot be corrected."

"Say your temper?" She suggested with a tone of amusement.

"Or your untamed manner would suit the context better."

She baited him but he did not fall for it, instead the sharp edge was turned against her.

"I see now, we are back to the battle of wits that we shared at our very first meeting." Her previous high regard of him all varnished.

"I did not start it if you could recall, my lady. I recollect that you did mention that you find dancing more enjoyable if we remain unsociable and taciturn."

"Yes of course. I have not forgotten my own words. Unfortunately I have changed my mind. I prefer to be sociable now."

"I am surprised by your talent of conversing easily with people whom you are not familiar with." He would not agree that they were familiar or even acquitted with each other if he must admit.

"I usually save my tongue to meet those whom others have difficulty interacting with."

One would be a fool not to have understood what she meant. But he remained fairly calm. They continued their steps as the music flew. His next words were not friendly acknowledgement of her previous speech either.

"I am glad you have _finally_ found some good use for your tongue."

She shot him a fierce look, trying hard to suppress her fury. He chuckled lightly at her loss of words. That almost victorious smile on his face was a slap in her face.

The first dancing session almost came to the end. There would be a brief break before the next session began. There were another two more before dinner. And it appeared more people were ready to show their talents on the floor, which including Lady Éowyn and her cousin.

An urge of disgust rushed through her throat when she came to realise the pair of father and son were still following them. It did not seem that the son was going to give up trying to dance with her. Her gut tautened and she made for the obvious opportunity.

"Lord Éomer, should we finish the roof as we have started thatching?"

His straight eyebrow arched. His expression came with a puzzled look. It took him a moment to comprehend what she meant.

"I thought you would have found your companion somewhat disagreeable."

"Disagreeable is not unbearable. Being with a disagreeable companion is far more enjoyable than being with a loathsome man." She clarified. Then she added on second thoughts, "If my company has been awfully intolerable, my lord, I would be very happy to take my leave. I am sure there are dozens of ladies tonight who are very eager to share a dance with you."

His face slowly settled into a frown. She knew she had hit it. Like her brothers, this man certainly did not enjoy the idea of some women parading themselves in front of him and having to displease himself by forcefully dancing with one of them.

The fingers of the musicians lifted from the strings, putting the stop to the first session. Adjusting the strings and their chairs, the harpers made ready for the second session. They made another swirl and slowed their pace and stopped by chance in front of his sister and her cousin.

Lothíriel bowed to the fair lady and her cousin. "Lady Éowyn. Lord Faramir." She beamed a smile.

On the contrast, Éomer simply nodded. He showed no obvious reaction.

"Lady Lothíriel, I see that my brother had the fortune to have your company." Éowyn could not hide the teasing in her voice. She continued to eye at her brother.

"Yes, your unfortunate brother _twice_ had to put up with me for quite a while."

"What do you think of this, Brother?" Éowyn was enjoying herself with this. The pair just looked incredibly complimenting in her eyes.

"Lady Lothíriel did _quite well_." The answer was in the most disinterested tone as if it was written for a speech.

"Lothíriel, you did very well then." Faramir took that as a compliment for his cousin.

"No, I said 'did quite well', Steward." Here came the correction.

Lothíriel could not help but notice the disapproving tone in his voice.

"Ah, 'quite well' is not 'very well'!"

"Perhaps then, Lord Éomer could release you. I am sure there are many other men who would enjoy your company." Sensing the awkward unease between the pair, Faramir offered the opportunity to cease the unspeakable discomfort.

"I would have to keep Lord Éomer companied until dinner time, Cousin."

Faramir noticed Éomer's face etched slightly upon hearing his cousin's reply.

"It would be the greatest honour to keep the most prestige guest of Gondor in good company. Lord Éomer and I have agreed on this." She continued to explain in a matter-of-fact tone.

"So, are you both in good terms now?" Faramir spat out the baffling question that Éowyn and him had wondered for a good while.

"No!"

And little did they expect to hear the same answer coming from two different mouths simultaneously.

"Ah, Lady Lothíriel, in that case, maybe it would be wise that you would enjoy a dance with my son."

The voice made Lothíriel nearly jump. How could she have forgotten the rats? The noble man approached them with his son following closely behind him. Collecting her composure quickly, trying hard to keep her good manner, she bowed to the father and son.

"Lord Saewon. Lord Glavror." There was no smile on her face. All the lively expression moments ago were swept clean.

"My lords, my ladies." The father and son bowed.

"It…it would be a great honour to share _at least_ a dance with you tonight, Lady Lothíriel." The timid son finally spoke up.

Lothíriel made no intention of giving her answer. She just stared at them.

"What say you, my lady?" The father urged.

Five pairs of eyes were now on her, waiting for her response. Very quickly she lit the most polite smile she could put on her face and in the most courteous tone, she said, "It is not my intent to leave the King of Rohan to _any other_ company today."

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted it. They sounded so misleading, not as she initially formulated them to be. At the corner of her eye, she could see Éomer turning his head slowly to her. She refused to look directly at him or her cousin or his sister. She did not want to see the expression on their faces especially Éomer's, but she felt his strong gaze on her.

"It must be indeed a pleasure to offer your company to the King of Rohan _all_ day, my lady. What an _honour_ it must be!" Saewon took the chance of repaying the humiliation that his son had suffered. He continued to deride her. "I am sure he would find your company very _pleasurable_."

Her knuckles whitened. If she could have slapped this man right now, she would have. Gritting her teeth to suppress her anger, she forced every word out of her mouth, "What do you know of honour, my lords? It does not even run in your blood."

There was no need to be diplomatic with this family. Then hope came, the music rang at the precise time. She slipped her hand under Éomer and said without looking at him, "Shall we, Lord Éomer?"

He could feel her hand trembling faintly in his arm but he said nothing. They made their way to the floor again. Faramir and Éowyn followed right after. Lothíriel could see her cousin and his sister exchanging words. It won't surprise her that Éowyn was inquiring her cousin about her behaviour. She was completely lost in her thoughts when he woke her up.

"Lady Lothíriel?"

"I am sorry. I must have been drifting in my own little world." She apologised. Her gaze became unsettling. She did not know where to place her eyes. She had been avoiding looking at him since they started dancing. She was sure that he noticed.

Her reluctance to meet him was hard to give a miss. He simply pulled her closer and asked, "What have they done to deserve such harsh words?"

"Mind you, it is none of your business." Her tone sounded rather rude. She felt no need to offer such explanation.

"Perhaps you should really work on your manner, my lady!"

"And that advice should not have come from you then!" She growled. Her suppressed anger that bottled up for the whole day, just surfaced. She had lost her temper when she should not have. Despite her disliking of him, this man just saved her today and had agreed to play her game and now she snapped at him. How impolite of her. Not one would expect this from a child of Imrahil. "I am truly sorry. I did not mean that." She offered her apology.

He sighed. He failed to comprehend how the brain of this woman worked, or she had any.

They kept dancing for quite a long while. The air between them became very awkward. Either of them made the effort to begin any conversation.

"I truly meant it when I said I was sorry. It was rude of me."

Her expression and tone softened. Her gaze from being unsettling, landed on his.

"Apology accepted." A dry reply.

Then there was another awkward pause.

"My father should not learn about this." She stated her intention clearly of hiding this matter from her father.

"How would you suggest that I answer him if he should ask?"

He was sure that their presence together had almost raise enough suspicious speculation that would last a few days, not that he cared but he was not very keen to have to lie to others.

"What would you have said, my lord?"

"Rohirrims only speak words of truth."

"I rephrase that. There is no need for my father to hear about this." She took a small step back and distant herself away from him. The resolute in her voice was clear.

"Are you telling me to lie to your father?" His voice filled with disbelief. He was not able and not trying to conceal the anger in voice.

"I am just saying, there is no need to mention of any of this. A good exchange of opinion might be enough to satisfy my father's curiosity." She corrected, "I am sure he would believe every word you tell."

"My lady, your father is far more intelligent than you think." He simply continued to warn her. "It won't surprise me in anyway if he has taken in everything that just happened."

Whilst they were on the floor, Imrahil continued to observe his daughter and surveyed her every move cautiously. Even the slightest detail did not escape his eyes.

"Father, have you told her?" His eldest son asked, not being able to hide the concern he had for his sister.

"No." He took a sip from his glass and turned to his son. "Today is the celebration of the coronation of the King. We should leave domestic matter until tomorrow."

"But-"

He gestured to stop his son from continuing.

"We will discuss it tomorrow, Elphir. I will say no more." The Prince returned his thoughtful gaze on his daughter.

On the other hand, his daughter found more joy in the third dancing session after finishing a glass of wine. She soon became overly lively. Éomer continued to frown and shook his head with an occasional sigh in between. This woman was beyond the understanding of any being.

"You are drunk, my lady. Perhaps it is for your best interest that we stop."

"I am not drunk, my lord. Little glass does me no harm." She rejected his suggestion.

"I recall correctly that you have had four pints and a glass of wine, if that counts as _little_?"

"Incorrect, I had four pints and _two_ glasses of wine. Does not it astound you that I am still firmly on my feet following your lead?"

"Anything now astounds me less after I eventually found that you were Imrahil's daughter and that you _failed_ to mention it when we first met, Lady Lothíriel."

"Why must you bring this up again?" It seemed to her that he had every intention to stick to the same topic from the very beginning.

"Then why did you not say so?" He insisted in a cold tone.

She narrowed her sea-grey eyes, her mouth clamped into a flat line but could not hide the twitching at the corner of her lips. Her fingers in his hand dug into his and she pressed her hand on his shoulder harder, then she took a quick whirl and extended their steps. Then he finally understood. She took the lead of the dance and swirled her way out of the crowd, out of her _father's_ sight. There they stood, outside the Hall, around a dark corner where not many could see them. Well, there were not many here anymore. Most people had made their way to inside the Hall to stay warm as well as to get ready for the feast.

"If you must insist, Lord Éomer, you too forgot the _polite_ introduction about yourself at our first meeting!"

She withdrew her hand which he still clasped.

"I guess it is not that difficult for you to figure out there are not many Éomers from Rohan."

"Not to mention that you actually entered my tent without my permission that night. The banner of the King stood outside. You would have to completely _blind_ to have missed that, my lady." He continued to assault her deliberate intent to hide her identity.

"There were opportunities after opportunities that you could've told me who you were but you made no effort. It was not until today that I learnt Imrahil had a daughter and it happened to be you!" The nameless anger that rose when Imrahil introduced her, finally peaked. He could hardly keep his tone low.

"I don't understand how it came to enrage you so much, my lord. It did not cross my mind to hide my identity from you. I simply saw that it was not important. It was not worth mentioning. There were other matters at hand that required more weight than this." She protested and stood her ground.

"Really? Perhaps failure to mention to your father, that you and I had actually met, was within your calculative measure, too? Or, was it because it was a too embarrassing matter to discuss? Meeting a half naked man in his tent." The last sentence came out in a long hiss.

"What are you implying, Lord Éomer?" She stepped forward and looked him straight into his eyes. "You were crying out of pain and needed help!" She said defensively.

"I asked you to leave if you still remember. And I did not ask for any help. _You_ chose to stay." His words came out with great force, every word stressed and clear. He took a step forward and laid a weighing look on her.

"So now it was my fault?" She eyed him accusingly.

"Had it ever been mine?" He questioned back.

Decided that she could no longer continue this conversation with this man, she turned around and was ready to step away.

"I am not finished, my lady."

She turned back swiftly, gritting her teeth and pointing her finger at him. "Of course, my lord! It was you who started this. You are the King. But I have said it and I will say again, I am not your soldier and you do not command me. And, I really cannot see the significance of this argument."

Before she could take her first step to leave this unpleasant conversation, her hands were clasped tightly. He pushed her against the wall, held her hands above her head. She tried to kick and shake to free herself, but the lock on her hands were of iron grip and her feet came to meet the heavy armour boots of his. He moved in even closer, drawing the distance between them to basically nose tip to nose tip. His heavy armour was pressing into her. She hissed angrily.

"I will tell you the significance of this argument!" His voice was hoarse. His nostrils flared and his teeth were bared. She could see strong fury flickered in his eyes. "I nearly killed you twice. Does that ring a bell?"

"Or, when you insisted going into the forest and hurt your damn foot. How did it not come to your sense that you were **_my_** liability?" He added. His breath became heavy and mingled with the cold air, blowing on her face. His glare was piercing as he spoke. "That should anything happen to you, I would have to report to your father? And probably tell him I nearly killed or have killed his daughter! Do you **_not_** understand?"He nearly roared at her at the end. If he could have broke her skull and check what sat inside, he would have.

"Éomer King!" A shout stopped him from continuing. It was Gamling. He shouted loud enough to make his king hear him and to stop him doing any further unthinkable. In Rohirric, he spoke to his king and quickly drag him away, trying not to draw any further attention to the rather compromising situation.

Her hands finally went free. She could still feel his anger from the strain around her wrists. Her eyes widened. It came as a total shock to her. His words were still hammering down her sense. Her mind went vacant for a while. And she finally came to understand why he was so furious. She searched for him again. He was gone.


	10. of Liquid and Flame

**Thank you again for the reviews that I have received! Writing has been really difficult without motivation from the reviewers. (I start to wonder if my writing is so poor that it fails to attract more reviews! Perhaps I should opt for a Beta Reader.)**

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><p><em><strong>Writs of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

**_Chapter 10: of Liquid and Flame_**

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><p>Gamling had been paying attention to his king's behaviour for the last few hours. He had heard the riders talking about their king dancing with a Gondorian lady, not for one but three consecutive sessions, which was definitely unusual. Marshals Enkerbrand and Elfhelm both shared the same thought. All three of them watched Éomer from the moment his sister and he were brought to Edoras to live with King Théoden, until he became Third Marshal of the Riddermark. They knew him like the back of their hands. Éomer was very much like his father, not just his appearance but also his unyielding character.<p>

He was trying to be sociable when he turned his eyes back to the dance floor and his king was gone. He must admit he was in the state of slight panic when his king disappeared all together with the young lady from the Hall. He stretched his neck around and only to see Éothain was too busy drinking and laughing that he was not aware that he had just failed his responsibility – protecting the King!

Gamling frowned, scanning through the Hall once more. He was dead certain he was not the only one looking for _them_. There, he saw Imrahil eyeing at every corner. Béma, he must find his King. He made his way to the entrance swiftly, in hope to that they might actually be outside. He shrunk his shoulders, wrapped his hands around himself as the chilly air hit him. It was spring but the wind could still readily strip the very warmth from a man. His eyes searched under the rising blue veil of dusk.

Then he heard rather loud chattering. Why did it sound so familiar? His heart nearly leaped out of his chest when he saw his King – not only that he was shouting but he was pressing against a woman who was not ordinary woman other than the daughter of Imrahil!

"Éomer King!" He called once, hurrying his steps toward him.

"Éomer King!" A second attempt, slightly louder. No, that did not work either!

"Éomer King!" Third time, the loudest he had ever voiced before his king and his previous king. He saw Éomer slowly turning his head towards him, panting angrily, still baring his teeth.

Grabbing the shoulder of the young man, he dragged him forcefully. Shaking his head, not believing what he had just seen, he pulled him until a safe distance, pushed hard on his shoulder and said in their own tongue, "Éomer, son of Éomund! "

"I heard you."

"Permission to speak as an old friend, my King?" The older rider demanded. He found it hard to hide the stiff measured tone in his voice.

"Since when do any of you have to ask the permission to speak?" His answer came with a slight hint of irritability.

"May I?"

"Get on with it, Gamling!" He barked his most trusted advisor. Patience was not his best virtue.

"Have you lost your mind!" The older man barked back, with his index finger poking the left side of the head of his king a few times – something that most people dared not do. He was really grateful that his long friendship with his young king had granted him the privilege at such moment. "What were you doing? What were you thinking? What has got into you lately?" He went on to question his king' sanity.

Éomer hid his face in his hands and rubbed his temple hard. He closed his eyes, "I don't know, Gamling. I am beginning to question myself that."

"Did you just try to kiss her?" Gamling could not help with the suspicion of what he saw.

"NO!" Gamling's words sent Éomer fuming. "I was not kissing her! Why would I kiss her? Gamling, are you blind?"

"It certainly did not look that you were not doing it for anyone with a pair of eyes!" Gamling could not hold back his prejudgement he had when he first spotted them. Above everything else, he really could not any reasons to explain all the wrong behaviours of his king lately. "Then you better explain yourself, Éomer – what were you doing there? Why were you and the Lady of Dol Amroth in…in...such a compromising position? Can you imagine if it was not me but Prince Imrahil who caught you? How wrong would that all look to him! No, wrong is an understatement! Indecent would be a better word!"

"Last thing I need is your sarcasm, Gamling."His young king sighed. "It was not how it -" Éomer found it extremely hard to elaborate the previous situation.

"My lord. Please tell me." The older rider spoke in a softer tone, trying to courage his king to speak up. "Can you please find a sensible reason that you were pressing against Imrahil's daughter?"

"I was upset with her." Éomer uttered, knowing his reason would trigger more questions from Gamling.

"Tell me something I don't know, Éomer." Gamling rolled his eyes.

Every Rider of Rohan in the camp knew their king was not pleased with certain lady from Dol Amroth. It was not new. Their encounter at the injured soldiers' camp and then the next day when Lothíriel went galloping down to their camp had been a heated topic of discussion at the dinner table for the past few weeks. Rumours only went as far as how angry Éomer got, but beneath it, there were ongoing debates about the chemistry between both.

"Gamling, please!" Éomer hissed at his old friend.

"Look, Éomer. If you cannot explain yourself to me, how are you going to tell Imrahil if she has gone crying to her father and told him that you had assaulted her?"

"She won't do that." He said with a tone of iron certainty.

"How do you know she won't do that? Have you threatened her not to tell her father?"

"Gamling! What and who do you think I am?" Éomer roared at Gamling's last words.

"I seriously doubt you have any sanity left the moment you met that woman."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Éomer worked his brain to untangle the mess and the intoxicating effect the woman had imposed on him. "She never told me who she was. I did not know she was Imrahil's daughter until just now. I could not help but think her deliberate attempt at hiding her identity."

"Well, that should not have sent you off the roof, should it? The fact that she is Imrahil's daughter should not matter in any case."

"Well it should since I tried to kill her twice!" Éomer finally blurted it out.

"You what? Oh, for Béma's sake! When and _how_ did this happen? Why either I, Marshal Elfhelm or Marshal Enkerbrand knew _nothing_ about this?"

Gamling, seemingly gave up on his king, threw his hands in the air, disbelieved by what he just heard.

"After we first met her at the camp, I was back in my tent. She tried to tend my bruise and then my reflex just went. Second time - when we returned from the forest, I went to her chamber to speak to her. I mistook her as an intruder. None was intentional."

"That would be an impressive story to tell to her father." Came the irony in Gamling's reply.

"Gamling, that is the problem. She did not tell her father, or anyone. Moreover, she somehow did not see the importance of mentioning to me that she is Imrahil's daughter either!"

"Is that why you attacked her?"

"Yes- NO! I did not attack her. I was just explaining to her that she ought to let people know who she is." Éomer sighed. It was weary and painful having to explain everything to old Gamling.

"Well, I guess, she will remember it for the rest of her life." He sat next to his king and eyed at him. He sighed with a tone of either disbelief or relief. "Stupid woman."

"Exactly." Éomer could not agree anymore.

* * *

><p>The evening of celebration was rapidly passing from a murky gloom to obscurity. Gust of wind with dense drops of rains were sweeping across the path in front of him. He quickened his step toward the doors and the door guards opened them for him then closed behind him. Gondorians valued the respect to the highest. Even the doors to the tomb made no sound when swung.<p>

The dinner finished earlier than expected. Éomer believed it was his friend, Aragorn's intention to retire everyone earlier as most host of the West were still weary from the returning journey. Shadows of the night seemingly moved and lurched in the Tombs of Kings. Flickering light touched the icy stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of marble walls that marched ahead. Éomer watched eyefully the marble dead that were resting on his left and right side of the pathway. Their likenesses were carved into the stones and in long rows they slept. His booted steps made no sound as he walked among the fore kings, stewards and knights of Gondor. Tonight he had come to pay respect to his uncle just like he did since the seventeenth king of Rohan fell. But something was different tonight. Something implacable that set his sense off and triggered his full alert. His hand moved on the tilt of his sword. He decreased his pace, moving as slowly as he could.

A song feminine voice sang in the dark.

_Oft him anhaga are gebideð,  
>metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig<br>geond lagulade longe sceolde  
>hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ, <em>

The song cast a shadow in his heart. It was an old Rohirric song that soldiers sang to lament the passing of their comrades. His mother would sing the same song whenever his father returned home with the cold blue bodies of his people.

_ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma,  
>gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas,<br>baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra, _

The singing stopped abruptly. Éomer knew every line of the song by heart and it should not have stopped here. Some heavy snorting was as loud as the groans of trolls on Pelennor Field. But it was not his.

"What are you doing here, you rat!" A female shouted. There was no mistake that her voice completely betrayed her emotion. Her voice was thick with hatred and coiled with anger.

"Lady Lothíriel, why would you greet an old friend in such an unschooled manner?" A male said with anticipation.

Éomer rose his brows as he heard her name. What was she doing here? It had passed midnight.

"Murderer!"

"Why would you say that, my lady?" The man sounded incredibly calm with full expectation of the woman's reaction.

"Get out, Saewon! Before I call the guards!" She barked at him.

So it was the elder nobleman he met in the afternoon. Éomer's eyes narrowed with suspicion. He continued to listen.

"I came here to make a deal with you, my lady."

Éomer could hear the victorious laughter in the man's voice.

"I don't make deals with murderer!" Lothíriel, on the other hand, was losing her composure.

Ignoring her reaction, the man continued, "Maybe your father has not had the chance to tell you. Let me pass you the delightful new. I have made your father an offer, something that he cannot refuse." He paused for a moment, then added, "I would be happy to have you as my daughter-in-law, Lady Lothíriel. Glavror loves you dearly."

His words were not only a shock to Lothíriel but were also unexpected to Éomer. Why would a man allow his son to marry a woman who dismay them to the point of disgust?

"Never. My father will not allow this." Words were forced out from her gritting teeth.

"I told you. It is an offer he _cannot_ refuse."

"Over my dead body, Saewon. If you think you can use me to revenge my father and avenge your crippled son, you will never ever have it. You and your sons are all murderers." Her voice was hoarse with remembered grief and shame.

"How can you call Balchron murderer when you were the one who stabbed his leg ten years ago? And remember the Council decided that he was not guilty but you!" He reminded her the incident ten years ago.

"You poisoned the Council against me! You marred them from the truth! What your sick-minded son did to that servant girl was inhuman! I saw with my very own eyes that night! Your son deserves nothing than rotting in the Flame of Udun! I should have killed him when I had the chance." She was fighting hard to keep her voice calm.

"Are you accusing me?" He asked in with deliberate challenge.

"You know what you have done, you scum!" Anger began to surface in her voice.

"Ah, we have different opinions about this. You see, until now, the killer has not been found. Perhaps that is what that troubles you."

"What troubles me is that you still breathe."

"Ha!" The man chuckled with a sarcastic tone. He continued. "But you still miss the point here - you will be my youngest son's bride. And I am _really_ looking forward to attending the wedding in autumn. An offer your father cannot refuse, remember? Have a good night, my lady."

Proud footsteps echoed louder. Éomer intercalated himself swiftly between the shadows with a fluid move. Saewon did not see him. He waited until the older nobleman had left the Hall then he cast himself out of the shadow. He continued until he reached the entrance of High Hallows, there he saw her standing back to him, showering herself under the scarce moonlight that channelled from window. Her midnight blue hair that shone like black steel fell behind her loose. She had undone the braids on her hair since they last met outside the Hall. Gamling had tried to keep him so busy at the celebration dinner that he could not spare any attention to other matters.

"You should not be here alone."

She startled by his words, her shoulders staggered lightly. She turned her head slowly to look at him. Now her face came into his sight with scant lit of moon. Tears came unbidden to her grey eyes. Her large eyes seemed magnified under the shimmering liquid that welled up in her eyes. Under those long thick lashes, if they looked hollow before, now they resembled bottomless pits that whirled in every soul they met into them. Her face carried a clear complexion, with a straight nose that met her pale lips. The muscles around her jaw twitched. He could tell she fought back holding her tears from falling.

She stared at him wordlessly. After a short pause, her face was veiled with a doleful look. She returned her stare to the window and asked in a weak tone as if an ill patient, "You have heard everything, have you not?"

"I did not mean to eavesdrop. I am sorry." He offered.

Still locking her eyes absently to the window, she said seemingly to no one in particular in a soft voice, "I learnt that song from one of your old riders. He said it is a lament to remember the fallen heroes. I came here to sing it to my mother. Though she is not resting here, this is the only place I've found peace in Minas Tirith."

Upon hearing her words, he felt as if a string in heart was pulled, pitching the painful memory of the loss of his family . He knew too well the grieve of losing someone dear and having to live and to remember the loss. He had lost too many. He examined her with thoughtful look. The young woman in front of him now appeared much mature, very unlike the untamed character whom he encountered just hours ago. The intrepid arrogance varnished from her. She seemed to have grown into a different person in a few hours. He was not sure if it was his words that hit her before or the grave memory that was deliberately brought up by Saewon.

"I must take my leave, my lord. I bid you a good night." The tremble in her voice signalled the dam of her emotion would not hold much longer. "And, I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you." She added.

She took a quick and deep breath, and hastened her feet to the doors. Her steps were no longer proud and wide but fast and narrowly paced.

He watched her gradual decreasing figure and asked a question without crossing his brain, "Are you going to marry him?"

Her steps came to a sudden halt. She gave him a glimpse over her shoulder. Her mouth gave a bitter twist. "No."

He found himself not disappointed by her answer and then he started to question himself why he had asked at all. It was evident that his heart seeked for it. But for now it would be better to deny that.

* * *

><p>Note1:<p>

Balchron = Balch (cruel) + ron (doer)

* * *

><p>Note2:<em><br>_

_Oft him anhaga are gebideð,  
>metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig<br>geond lagulade longe sceolde  
>hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ, <em>

_ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma,  
>gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas,<br>baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra, _

This is an extract from the first seven lines of an Old English poem known as **_The Wanderer_** which laments the passing of the heroic life of a warrior.

Translation is as below:

_Always the one alone longs for mercy,_

_the Maker's mildness, though, troubled in mind,_

_across the ocean-ways he has long been forced_

_to stir with his hands the frost-cold sea,_

_and walk in exile's paths. Fate is fully fixed_

_Thus spoke the Wanderer, mindful of troubles,_

_of cruel slaughters and the fall of dear kinsmen_


	11. of Rain and Tears

**Special thanks to**

**Glory Bee: Twists and turns can only get better ;)**

**littlemsstrawberry: Duty or no duty, her father will see to it personally! Haha!**

**Sic Vita Est: Chapter 10 has not been the easiest to compile at all! It grinds my brain!**

**AHealing Renaissance: Éomer is definitely playing a part, soon to be revealed in the next chapter. Let's add some spice in between!**

**Helleni: I have always enjoyed the sarcastic exchange between Miss Bennett and Mr Darcy!**

**Mary07: Like wine, love takes time to brew, especially in the case of these two unlike souls :)**

**Shy: All story need a little cliffhanger :)**

**Anon: It will go where it would go :)**

**To all anonymous reviewers: THANK YOU!**

* * *

><p>I have added some notes to add some understanding to the history behind Imrahil's family and Saewon's<p>

**Note on story OCs:**

**Saewon - the Head of Trade in Dol Amroth. He has control over most of the trading in Dol Amroth. He still holds a strong grudge against Imrahil for something else he has done many years ago (to be revealed in coming chapters)**

**Balchron - Saewon's eldest son whom Lothíriel stabbed and made cripple ten years ago. He finds pleasure in inflicting physical pains on others.**

**Glavror - Saewon's second and youngest son. A younger brother to Balchron. He holds strong affection for Lothíriel.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

_**Chapter 11**_

_**Part1: of Rain and Tears**_

* * *

><p>Minas Tirith<p>

Between 18th and 22nd July 3019 T.A.

With hands over her forehead, shielding away the increasing number of tiny droplets of rains beating on her, Lothíriel, quick and nimble, bounded across the pavement leading to The Old Fabric Shop. She pushed the door open and hopped into the stone shelter and busied sweeping off the remaining droplets that had not had the time to soak into her cotton garment.

The rain came unexpectedly. It has been clear and breezy during the day. After supper time, the clouds crept over the sky like ants and then the cries of thunder roared across the roofs. She reached for a towel to dry her damp hair, twisting it in the towel to force out the trapped moisture. It was late. She returned from checking the orphans and was not pleased with the weather. The candlelight flickered fiercely under the wind seeping from a window.

The King of Rohan had returned to Minas Tirith to carry the procession of King Théoden back to his own land. The festival over the last few nights was celebrated by many with great rejoice. Her father and brothers did feel themselves a little sober in the morning and it still did not stop them from resuming the same activity every night. And tonight there was no exception. She had restrained herself from being dragged along to such occasions, with some made-up excuses that she was required at the orphanage or the Houses of Healing as such. Somehow, she felt, under the watchful eyes of her father, he knew her reluctance to appear at the dinner table with others. He must have known that even not sitting at the same table, Éomer's presence still had the strong tendency to be uniquitous to her. And she had been trying to avoid him. The unexplained ambiguity between them had been troubling her mind since the night they last met at the Tombs of the Kings. She could not enunciate her feeling around him. So she decided it was best to avoid to have any form of contact with him.

The beating of the raindrops on the stone roof became louder. Lothíriel took a peek from her window and concluded that it won't stop for at least for an hour. It was at that moment that she saw a tall figure, staggering in the dark down the quiet and empty stoned path. That was unmistakenly a drunk man. When he finally came under a torch that survived under the rain, the ray lit up his face. His blonde locks, even with front fringe tied in a half pony rail, tangled and webbed across his face. She felt her heart skipped a few beats when she saw him. It was no other than the man she wished to avoid - Éomer. And he was drunk as a man could be.

Her heart thumped as he nearly tripped over a flower pot as he continued down the path. His feet got tangled under him as he tried to leave, and he lurched sideways and fell down like a heavy sack. He started cursing in his own tongue. Lothíriel quickly withdrew herself before she came to his sight. Her heart was pounding loudly in her chest. _What was this stupid man doing under the rain at this hour?_ Then slowly she recalled the conversation that her brothers had at the lunch time. Elphir and Erchirion were planning to bring the Horselord and his men completely down to three sheets to the wind**_[1]_**. They succeeded by the look of it. Either Éothain or Gamling was anywhere to be seen with their out-of-element king. She sighed with a scowl as if a headache had just struck her. The thunderous roars above her roof were declaring that the downpour would only get heavier. She could have just shut the windows and let the man sleep in the rain, of course that would mean he would properly be pretty sick when he woke up; or she could be more generous and remove him from the cold biting rain. Torn between what her brain told her to do and what her heart insisted, she scowled, biting her lower lip. After taking a deep breath, she gathered the end of her dress and darted outside towards the unsteady man who still tried to get onto his feet with poor coordinated movement.

Her brows scrunched even more as she got closer to him. He looked utterly awful from tip to toe. He had appeared before her looking grimed and dirty but not drunk, and now he was just completely pickled**_[1]_**. She reached for his arm, trying to pull him up. He muttered in a rough, angry and incomprehensible tone. His voice was thick with wine. He swung his arm up in the air, an attempt to wrench free of her grip.

"Get up!" She commanded.

Half-blind, he turned to look at her and did not seem to realise that anything was amiss.

"For Valar's sake, get a hold of yourself!" She cursed under her short breath. Clenching her teeth, she swung his arm over her shoulders and secured her grip around his waist. His weight came down on her like a rock on a miner. Damn, this man was heavy like lead, she cursed again. Every step she made towards her little shelter was a struggle, as if she were pulling his feet out of ankle-deep mud. The distance to the Old Fabric shop now was more steps that she would have believed; hundreds and thousands steps more. The pickled man on her shoulder was still muttering under his wine-soaked breaths. She cared not what he was saying. She just wanted to throw him on the floor once they got under the stoned roof. Her steps became more lumbering as they moved closer. Then with a last breath she hauled him across the lounge then dropped him on floor. Catching her breath quickly, she was sweaty and wet, liquid dripping continuously from the edge her sleeves.

The wind continued to whirl through the window. She needed more hot water, some towels to dry both of them and of course some dry clothes for changing. Grabbing a thick jute bag, she made for the door and swirled her way up the gate to the Houses of Healing. This was the only place that one could find these at such hour and moreover, it was close. Within minutes, she went running back to her shelter, with the loaded jute bag across her front and a large basin of hot water. Settling the basin and bag on the table, she dipped her fingers to check the temperature of the water. It was still warm. Good.

She leaned over, patting his face lightly. "Lord Éomer?"

No reaction. This man was boiled as an owl.**_[1]_**

Grabbing him by his shoulder, she pulled his upper body up, and took his soaked leather top off. It seemed the treated deer suede tunic managed to stop most of the rainwater; only the underlying shirt was wet and sticking to his skin but anything down from his waist seemed rather dry, save his boots. She was for a moment relieved that she did not have to do the honour to strip him naked. Dapping one of the cotton towels in the basin, she wiped his face, then went along and around his neck, chest and back. This man had to be the most beefy male she never came across. His flesh felt hard beneath his skin as her fingers ran through it. She swapped for another towel to dry him, from rubbing his damp hair to patting across every inch of his exposed flesh. She did not stop frowning for the whole while she was drying and dressing him in a clean shirt. _How could a man get so drunk? How could he get so drunk?_ She must not forget to congratulate her brothers that they managed to work the magic in turning the man, who was unusually cautious with alcohol, to such a blasted**_[1]_ **state, so successfully. Right, clean and dry he was now and he turned completely unconscious, it was her turn to take care of herself before she got sick and the warm water turned cold. With the basin in her left hand and towels in her right, she entered her chamber and quickly dried herself and changed into a set of dry raiment.

When she exited from her room, the man lying on the floor began muttering. His head rocked side to side as if he was in disapproval with someone. She paused and eyed him for a while. It was evident that she could not leave him on the floor in the middle of the lounge like this. It was disrespectful especially he was a king, regardless of his current condition. And there was only one bedchamber with a bed - hers. Not completely happy to bend to against her will, she titled her head sideway with an almost benign sigh, then her feet found themselves in front of the drunk man.

"Horsemaster, let's get you in bed!" She bent down and placed his shoulder across hers, coiling her other arm around his waist, she dragged him across the lounge, his heavy boots scraping the floor. He looked like a dead carp**_[2]_** that the fishermen in Dol Amroth pulled off their fishing nets. As they reached her bedchamber, she lowered her shoulder and released her hands on him, sliding him onto the bed, with just his booted feet hanging in mid air. Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she supported herself by leaning against the bed frame, grasping for air. Whilst he continued muttering with a few grumbles in between, she pushed his feet up onto the bed.

"Théo…..den…."

She paused and examined the unconscious man. No more sound came from his lips, maybe it was her own illusion. The dancing candle light cast out the sharp feature on his face. _This man was incapable of looking ugly even when he was sleeping. Damn._ Shaking off her silly thought, she resumed loosening the laces of his riding boots then finally taking off the boots.

"Théoden….Éam…" It rang silently then trailed off again.**_[3]_**

He was calling for his uncle. With a worrying look, she pulled a blanket on him and leaned over to soothe him.

"Shush, sleep, sleep."

He was not responding to her soothing words. He began sucking in air noisily, his face drawn with pain. He shook his head violently, his hair fell and webbed over his closed eyes, hiding the unshed tears that were surely forming. Then came the huge choking sob that made his whole body shake uncontrollably. The incipient tears just before were now streaming down his cheeks unheeding without any restraint.

"Éam..." The man in front of her was crying in his sleep, weeping for his lost family, his breath was stifled by sobs. Death was always a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after effects showed how deep the sorrow sunk. As a leader of his people, he could not verbalise his grieve easily with anyone. There were always things that a king had to restrain himself from doing just because he was a king. Little things like missing his family became a privilege yet deemed vulnerability in the eyes of many – this man could only cry in his dream.

Expression of exceeding sorrow that cast over his face arched her heart. The valiant rider whom everyone knew was nothing more than a wailing child tonight. His sorrowful cries drove the urge for her to touch his cheeks now so burnt with tears – a yearning for it so strong that it dawned through the walls of her aching heart. His grieves were too weighty for him to bear alone and it was gnawing her heart away. Her sight became bleary. She left a lump in her throat that she needed to forcefully push it back down. Her shaking hand reached for his pained face, fondling it gently and slowly. Tears beaded her lashes. On her lips, the salt taste of tears came to her tongue. Shocked, she lifted another hand to feel her face. Then, the moisture gushed over her cheeks. She brought her knees next to the bed and bowed her head upon his shoulder, murmuring. Her voice muffled in the thick folds of suffocating emotions. She heard the darkness breathed around them. In a quiet voice, she sang him a lullaby.

The wind continued to seep through the window and whispered around them.

Her grip on his hand laid still until the morning came.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part 2: of Unremembered and Remembered<strong>_

* * *

><p>The morning had dawned clear and breezy with a reminder that the day was going to be rewarded by warm fuzzies.<p>

Éomer opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the window. Feeling slightly light-headed, he groaned under his breath, pressing his temple. He rose to sit and was not sure where he was. He was not in his tent - that was certain. The room looked strangely familiar. He looked down on the hand-woven blanket lying on him. It carried the scent of fresh forest like pines. Earthy it was. The pale curtains were half drawn. Chirping of birds was a solid proof that he was not in any sort of vertigo.

He pushed the cover away and rested his feet on the side of the bed. There he saw his riding boots sitting next to the black ash table. Surveying himself, he found that he was wearing an ivory cotton shirt not completely buttoned. It was not the light brown shirt that he usually had and his green suede tunic was missing.

After stretching his legs for a short while, he grabbed his boots and slipped his feet into them.

"Éothain!" He called out. A habit he developed since Éothain was appointed as the Marshal of the Royal Guards.

"Lord Éomer!" A little head popped out from the door. It was Hannor. "Good morning!" The boy seemed delighted to see him. "Would you like a wash?" He offered.

"Yes, please, Hannor. Thank you." He answered. Pausing momentarily, he asked on second thought. "Where am I? And what time is it?"

"It has just passed nine o'clock. You are at the Old Fabric Shop. Lady Lothíriel's chamber." The young boy grinned at him.

He pitched the bridge of his nose, feeling a sudden attack of headache upon hearing the answer. It all explained why he found the room familiar but he could not remember how he ended up here.

"I will get you some warm water. Lady Lothíriel will be back soon with breakfast."

He watched the boy with the sunshine smile on his face disappeared from the door, leaving it ajar. He got on his feet and stretched his arms upwards. He pulled the curtains back and felt the breezy air brushing on his face. Minas Tirith was showered with a bright warm veil from the morning sun. The ray reflected from some shallow puddles blinded his eyes. Creaking sound came from the lounge, a good indicator that someone just entered. He turned around and opened his door. His eyes met with the owner of the chamber he just spent a night in.

Lothíriel could not tell if she was surprised or embarrassed to see Éomer. She felt awkward meeting his gaze. He was leaning against the door beam, with the unbuttoned shirt showing almost the entire of his muscular chest. His eyes reflected colourful shades of amber. She quickly tore her eyes away from him, pretending to be busy laying out the table with the fresh breads and cakes she just purchased from the bakery. Her ears were burning. She hoped he did not notice.

"Good morning." He greeted her.

"Good morning." She continued to busy herself with dressing the table, avoiding looking at him.

"How did I end up here?" he inquired politely. "I must apologise that I could not remember."

Her fingers on the cups halted. Her eyes became unsettling.

"I found you outside in the rain…..drunk." That last word came slow.

She heard him cursing lowly.

"I am truly sorry. I hope I have not caused too much inconvenience. I appreciate that you had given up your bedchamber for me."

The sincerity in his apologising tone was unmistaken. It interrupted her thought briefly but very quick, she resumed her task, gesturing at an upholstered long chair_**[4]**_ with a silk rug on top, in front of him. "I have a place to sleep. There was no need to be apologetic." She tried to keep the neutrality in her voice as much as possible, suppressing any emotion and lie that might leak from it.

As she remembered it, she woke up when the first light of the day touched Minas Tirith. Her legs were aching and numb from spending the whole night pressing on the cold floor without any sheets. Her thoughts were doubled with shock and embarrassment when his face appeared before her opened eyes and finding her hand clasping his. She startled and pushed herself back. A strong sense of guilt ran through her. Still unable to justify her own action, she exited her room hastily. Quickly finding a spare rug, she tried to calm herself in a long chair. She could not close her eyes. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest. The residue of warmth of his hand on her fingers rippled in the pond of her heart.

A flow of ambiguous air surrounded them. She disliked it. Maybe it would be better if she did not have to be around him. Setting her eyes on the table, her fingers worked their way swiftly to slice the breads and cakes and uncover the butter and jam. Then she prepared the tea and coffee. "Hannor will be back shortly with water and clothes for changing. After breakfast, you should make your way back to your camp. Your men would be looking for you. It would be most unwise for them to think their king has gone missing."

Her words did not sound completely convincing and they came out colder than she thought. On contrast, neither Éothain nor Gamling had come around looking for their king. She won't be surprised if they were still sleeping somewhere like the rest of their riders.

"I have to go to see the children. Have a good day, my lord." She refused to look at him when she took a light bow before bolting for the door. She was certain he noticed her unease.

* * *

><p>Imrahil's camp<p>

20th July 3019 T.A.

Imrahil was giving instructions to his knights to organise the preparation for the journey to Edoras when one of his Royal Guards entered and whispered in his ears. His expression settled into a deep frown. After pacing in his tent for a while then he called his Royal Guard forward. In a stern voice, he said to him. "Send words for Lady Lothíriel to see me."

**TBC**

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><p><strong>Footnotes<strong>

This scenario is based on movie-verse. There was no scene showing Éomer grieving for his beloved uncle.

_**18th July 3019 T.A.**_ : The Rohirrim returned to Minas Tirith to make the preparation to carry the procession of their fallen king back to Edoras.

_**[1]****three sheets to the wind, pickled, boiled as an owl, blastered**_: _(adj_) drunk

_**[2]Carp**_: (_noun_) a big fish

_**[3]Éam**_: (_strong masculine noun_) maternal uncle in Old English

**_[4] Long chair:_ **Chaise Lounge (in French), an upholstered chair with long bed; arm and head rest on one side. Similar to that which Éowyn was sleeping on in The Two Towers. (see DVD Chapter: Éowyn's dream)


	12. of Pledge and Decision

**Review acknowledgement:**

**Glory Bee: I like to think that nobody is perfect, so it is easier to introduce flaws than to justify it ;) such as Our King of the Mark getting pissed!**

**Volenska: I have been told a few times that I dwell too much on unnecessary details. I have to learn to balance it :)**

**b5delenn: Thanks for reminding me that I mixed up Chapter 3 and 4. Yeah that scene with Saewon was not easy to articulate.  
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**To all the anon: Thank you :D**

**PS: I am yet to find a beta-reader...  
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><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

_**Chapter 12: of Pledge and Decision**_

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><p>Imrahil's camp<p>

20th July 3019 T.A.

While waiting patiently for his daughter to arrive, Imrahil recalled the morning when Lothíriel stormed into his tent. It was just more than 2 months ago, on 2nd May, the day after the coronation of King Elessar. He never forgot her face and her eyes so filled with the burning ire that he saw ten years ago when she was accused of prevarication.

"_Father! What did he say to you? What is this offer that you cannot refuse?" She questioned loudly._

_Trying to calm her violent mood, he surrendered to her request. "He has most of the traders behind him. He has claimed most control over the trading on most of the land and shores. The farmers and fishermen will suffer if we refuse his offer." _

"_That snake threatens you with the lives of others?"_

"_Lothíriel, we need to talk about this."_

"_What is there to talk about him or his sons? Father, can you not see he is using me to inflict vengeance on you and to revenge his morbid son! " Her voice trembled with anger._

"_My love, I will only ask once – will you or not consider his offer?"_

"_No, never! I would rather die in orc's hands than marrying him. I will __**not **__marry his son. I will not bend to his threat. Saewon still holds grudge against you because Mother chose you not him, and now he is trying to use me to revenge his grudge. I am sorry, Father, but I will not allow this. I will not trade my life for this. Marriage is neither a barter nor a gamble." Her answer was determined. The trace of her strong will was solid and evident._

_Imrahil pulled his youngest child into his arms, embraced her and stroked her hair. This child of his whose age of innocence was cut short and who had to endure the shame of her right-doing, he failed her too much. Brushing away the streaming tears, he said in a soft voice, "Lothíriel, my child. If that is your answer, we will make it so."_

_"How are you going to keep him from doing harm, Father?"_

_"I will have my way. His supremacy will not last."  
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Within minutes, Lothíriel arrived at her father's camp.

"Father," she immediately gave her father tight hug. Her affection for her family was as legendary as her character and was well known among the Swan Knights. "What do you need of me?" She asked.

"My child." He kissed his youngest on her forehead and led her to sit down. Still holding her hands, Imrahil tried to formulate the best mean to convey his thoughts through. "Do you still wish to pursue your mother's dream?"

Her father voice was gentle and filled with love. It reminded her of the last conversation between her parents before her mother passed away.

"Yes, Father. It is still my very dream to help the Free People of Middle-earth." She squeezed his calloused hands slightly.

"Lothíriel, your brothers and I have agreed and decided that the heart of the matter is that you cannot stay in Dol Amroth, or even anywhere in Gondor."

Her eyes bewildered with extreme worry that what her father might have found out her. Her first thought upon hearing that her father wished to see her was to question her intent of sheltering a man in her chamber. "Are you sending me away? What have I done?"

Taken aback by her reaction, Imrahil placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder."My love. My Princess. There are things beyond my control. I cannot promise you how the tides will turn when we return to Dol Amroth. Though I have not and will not agree to his offer, his influence grows more powerful each day. The only way to assure that things do not set their will against you is to send you somewhere where his evil claws cannot reach."

She blinked once, seemingly to understand what her father meant. So, it was not her dealings with Éomer that he was talking about, she cursed herself for being stupid and short-sighted. Her father was trying his best to keep her away from Saewon. To send your children away to keep them safe - it was the most difficult decision a parent had to make. Even her father, whom she always remembered as invincible, could not stop the evil turbulence stirring in Dol Amroth. She felt moisture blearing her sight and her throat tightened. Never in her thought that parting with her family would cross her mind and came to reality.

His rough and wrinkled thumb brushed away the tears streaming down her cheeks. He continued bitterly. "I am sorry it has to come to this, Lothíriel. I've failed you…and your mother."

"Father, you have not. You have done all you could." She ran her fingers across his father's greyish brow. His face appeared more wrinkled that usual. All the mighty composure he displayed on the battlefield varnished from him like they never existed before. His heart seemed to have aged over night.

"My only wish is to see you safe and happy."

"I know, Father. I've always known." The salty taste filled her mouth. She wrapped her arms around the mightiest man she ever known in her life and rested her head on his warm chest. "I love you, Ada."

"Lothíriel, easy paths do not enter an adult's life. There will be times that I can no longer be your shelter or your home. So much that I wish you could ardour and embrace the light then you never have to fear darkness. But now is this time to look into your present and decide your future." Imrahil felt a deep remorse running down his core for having to come to this decision.

The conversation ended with the discussion of the company that Lothíriel should take with her. Despite her father persistent suggestion of taking some of the Royal Guards, she only asked for two people: Moriel and Hannor. Busied herself with the packing of her things, not that she had much to carry. It did not come to her thinking until later that she had no idea where she was going.

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><p>Later in the afternoon.<p>

"Lord Imrahil, King Éomer is here." Informed one of his guards.

"Let him in."

Imrahil's expression could not hide his surprise and amusement when the young king entered his tent with most of his council. Gamling, Elfhelm and nevertheless the Marshal of his Royal Guards, Éothain, whom above every else, followed his king almost everywhere ever since his sons soaked their king with too much wine.

They acknowledged each other's presence with a polite nod.

"Prince Imrahil, what is the pressing matter that you wish to see me so urgently?" inquired the young king politely.

Imrahil laughed at the question. Over the months, he had learnt to admire this young man, not only for his fortitude bestowed in the face of battle but also the dignified integrity as a man. His fairness and straightforwardness of conduct never failed to entertain his sons.

"King Éomer, I just want to inform you personally that the supplies are here. My sons have seen to it themselves. Other than grains and flours, there are also planks of lumbers, bundles of clothes and all other provisions that we think you may find necessary. My men are loading them onto wagons as we speak. They should be ready for dispatch in two days when we leave for Edoras."

"I cannot thank you enough for your generosity on behalf of my people." Éomer gave the older man another bow. The sincerity was clear in his voice.

"Ah, my lord, please. My offerings can never be equal to the sacrifice Rohan has made to save Gondor." Imrahil reached out a hand to rise the young king. He sighed before continuing, "King Théoden was a truly valiant warrior. Gondor will never forget the aid of Rohan and all the blood that spilled on Pelennor Field."

Éomer could not help but stiffen a little. Imrahil could see the death of the previous King of Rohan still haunted the young man.

"Don't doubt yourself, Éomer." Imrahil placed his hand on Éomer's shoulder. He did not call him king this time, but simply addressed him as a friend. If one says one can speak volume with his eyes, then Imrahil was sure that he recognised the intensive uncertainty that flashed in Éomer's eyes.

"_All lay loads on a willing horse_. You will do well." Imrahil continued, increasing the pressure on the grip he laid on Éomer's shoulder. "Your people will follow you into death and fire. They will follow your every step."

The young king said nothing. Imrahil surveyed him again -rough, worn yet young with strong physicality and dynamism of a natural leader. Imrahil let out a soft sigh. "Lord Éomer….." He opened his mouth but only to clamp shut it again.

Sensing the hidden hesitance in Imrahil's tone, Éomer's eyes hardened slightly for a very brief moment. "Is there anything else that you wish to discuss?"

"I need a favour from you, Éomer. One that I cannot possibly repay with everything I have." The Prince of Dol Amroth said with great weight in his voice.

"Lord Imrahil, if only I find words to express how grateful I am for you saved my sister's life, I would have. Please do speak your mind."

Trying to articulate his thoughts, Imrahil drew a deep breath. "Lothíriel."

His daughter's name seemed to have a repulsive effect on the riders. The expression on Éomer's face was complicated to comprehend. His eyes widened upon hearing her name and his face scowled with a questioning gaze. Behind him, his council became unsettling and troubled. Gamling rubbed his forehead, murmuring in Rohirric. Éothain was more surprised than shocked and could not stop eyeing at his king. Elfhelm was the only one who seemed rather unaffected under his cool exterior.

"Suitors have come around, if you have not already heard about Lord Saewon's offer."

"I am, in a way, aware of it." Éomer chose not to deny his knowledge. It was not his nature to lie.

"I understand that many deem Lothíriel wild and untamed but she has not always been like this." The older prince sighed. "She stabbed Saewon's eldest son ten years ago when she caught him abusing one of the servants. But the verdict did not come out in Lothíriel's favour. The servant was murdered before the final trial could continue. Untruth turned white into black. The decision was made and she was stripped of her title and all the privilege taken from her. I could only circumvent so much to keep her alive at that time. Within a night, pride and innocence varnished from her. It cannot be helped that she shares some degree of distrust amongst the people she meets."

The Prince continued. "There are some forces that are beyond my control in Dol Amroth. As much as I want to keep her close to me, she cannot return to Dol Amroth with me and her brothers. Neither, she can stay in Gondor."

"I am certain King Elessar would be able to advise on this, Lord Imrahil." The King of Rohan suggested.

"It is a domestic affair of Dol Amroth. I cannot bring this matter upon King Elessar. Moreover, Saewon might use this to his advantage. He is a tradesman. Cunning is his nature. It should have been handled in a more appropriate manner but sadly if I had adhered to my jurisdiction, it would mean sending Lothíriel to her death. She will rather die than marrying his son. I understand that Lothíriel is not the most agreeable lady and you both are yet to come into good terms with each other. A drowning man will catch a straw, Éomer." The Prince of Dol Amroth sighed again. "It leaves me no options and I truly regret I have to put you through this, my friend. I _trust_ you and this I ask from you - Could you take my daughter to Rohan?" Now Imrahil stood no more than as a father pleading for his child.

There was a momentary silence in Imrahil's tent. Imrahil observed Éomer. He could see the reservation on the young king's face. He started to question himself if he had made the correct judgement approaching the young man with this difficult request.

"Lord Imrahil, I would need to discuss in depth this matter with my council."

He responded in a slow and polite voice, restraining himself from giving an answer too soon. Under these circumstances, it was not a matter to be taken lightly. The dark-haired man made his intention clear that he would entrust the life of his child in Éomer's hands if he should agree.

"Of course. I will leave you to it." Imrahil took his leave.

And there was not much time left for consideration. The party was due to leave Minas Tirith in two days. Éomer settled himself in a chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. How had it come to this? The first thought that crossed his mind, when Imrahil sent for him, would be the questioning on the obscure exchange between him and his daughter but it never crossed his mind that Imrahil would seek his assistance to save his trapped daughter. His request presented some ambivalence for Éomer. It would be almost cruel to decline, not to mention that Imrahil was the one who saved Éowyn until she was healed by Aragorn, but also the help that he had offered to help to rebuild Rohan was more than just a stroke on a paper. He knew deep inside that if he agreed to Imrahil's request, the complication between him and Lothíriel would only tangle further. He needed no more problems at this moment. Keeping the balance proved arduous.

"Lord Éomer." It was Elfhelm. "What is your thought on this?"

"I don't know." He shook his head.

"It would seem reasonable to agree to help Prince Imrahil. However, he might not know it, the ambiguity that exists between you and his daughter would just further complicate the situation." Reminded Elfhelm after exchange a look with Gamling. They were quiet aware of the obscurity they both shared.

"I don't need reminding, Elfhelm."

"She is not an easy woman, Éomer. But declining Imrahil's request would be a merciless act of basically sentencing his daughter to death." Elfhelm would have encouraged his king to say no but it was a matter of life and death.

"She has never been easy. Having her in Edoras might bring more troubles that we already have." Gamling could not help to be pessimistic.

"But she is not stupid, my lord." Éothain pointed out with some hint of encouragement in his voice, recalling the board match between him and Lothíriel.

"That is in fact true, Éomer. she might be difficult but she is not unintelligent. Perhaps it is possible to convey some messages to her to confine the effects she carries."

The discussion only made Éomer frowned further. "I've tried that I am not certain if it worked, Elfhelm."

"Well, has she caused you any further troubles since we returned to Minas Tirith?"

"No."

"Does her presence make you uneasy?"

"No." _Not annoying anymore at least.  
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Clearing his throat a bit, Elfhelm threw out the final question he had in mind, "Do you hate her?"

"No! What are you thinking, Elfhelm?" Éomer eyed his older Marshal with an arched eyebrow.

"That you won't try to kill her _again_."

"That is a good start, I suppose." Gamling inserted. Judging from the tide of the conversation, the decision would certainly reward the feeding frenzy among the riders.

"Maybe we could talk her into keeping her behaviour better."

"Or, just keep her busy with board games."

"We will have to keep the ales and wines from her though and make sure that she only has water or tea."

"Or, lock her in a study. Her brothers say she is interested in runes, parchments, lores, scrolls, journals-"

Most to Éomer's dismay, all the above suggestion came babbling from Éothain.

"I've heard enough, Éothain!" His superior cut him off. All eyes turned to Éomer. He rose on his feet and a little bitterness in his voice. "I will accede**_[1]_** to it."

Knowing his character and having almost anticipated what their king's answer would be and , his three subordinates could not hide the signs of surprises on their faces.

"Under _one_ condition." Éomer added.

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><p>Lothíriel was just a few steps away from her father's tent when she saw him emerging from it with Éomer, Elfhelm, Gamling and Éothain.<p>

"Father!" She ran and stopped abruptly after a few steps.

Towering above everyone else near him, Éomer gave her a very formal nod but his keen eyes only stayed briefly on her then they broke away to look at her father. He carried his usual frown between his eyebrows. She studied his face minutely then turned her eyes back on her father. She could not determine if she was more upset or surprised from what she understood from her father's expression.

"Rohan?" It came out almost a whisper.

Her father signalled for her to enter his tent but she refused. Éomer cast her a quick look again. Her eyes became unsettling. A flow of complicated emotions enveloped her. Betrayed? Angry? Confused? Or, shocked? She could not verbalise her feeling. She was going to Rohan with this blond man whom she knew to be cranky, angry, sardonic, bitter and often pissed-off and she was still unsure of the inexplicable ambience between them.

"Lady Lothíriel! Lady Lothíriel!"

Shouts from behind broke the momentary silence. Lothíriel turned her head slightly only to see Glavror approaching her. His loud voice attracted some uninvited audience.

"Lothíriel…." Imrahil extended his arm to motion his daughter to stay close to him.

"I will handle this, Father."

"I have just heard that you are going somewhere? Why are you doing this to me? What about our wedding? We are getting married in autumn." The tradesman's son asked.

"That has always been the delusion that you indulge yourself with. If I recall correctly, neither Lord Imrahil nor I have consented to your father's offer." She reminded him without making any eye contact.

"But why? We don't need your dowry! My family is rich! We have gold."

"The consent to marriage is not by measure of gold."

"We will still live happily."

His shameless persistence began to annoy her. It was obvious that Glavror was not a man intelligent enough to comprehend that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. "Tell me, why should I consent?" She asked.

"Because….because I love you." Misinterpreting her question as hint of persuading her, Glavror's face was suddenly beamed with happiness.

"But I don't! I don't even come close to liking you! You don't know me, Galvror. You don't know what I am capable of. You only see the skin. Like gold, that all pretty and shines, is all that matters to you. You don't know and understand love."

"That is not true. I…I…" Not anticipating her reaction, he suddenly found himself lost of words.

"Hear me loud and clear now. I will _not_ give my consent and I am leaving Gondor. Valar _might_ bless you in finding a bride."

Noting the presence of Éomer next to Imrahil and quickly drawing a quick conclusion from the scene, Galvror began his verbal assault on Lothíriel. "I know it! You are going to Rohan, aren't you? With that King!" Pointing his finger at Éomer, he continued, "I have seen how you looked at him. He is nothing more than a brute! What has he offered you? Tell me, I can give you ten thousand times more and better!"

His attempt at emulating himself to the Horsemaster failed to faze Lothíriel. She remained calm to the surprise of many others including her father. Her expression was unreadable. She just looked at Glavror and warned him. "Stop, Glavror, if you still have some shame left."

"Éothain!" Éomer reproved his bodyguard when he noticed the knuckles of the younger rider whitened on his sword tilt. He could understand Éothain's anger listening to the affronts directed to his king. Neither of them foresaw that the situation would escalate to this level. The young king turned to Imrahil and said. "Lord Imrahil, perhaps it is better that we return to our camp." Decided that he had had enough and they should take their leave before it all turned too ugly.

"I am sorry, my lord. You should not have to listen all that." Embarrassed by the situation, Imrahil could only but apologise.

As Éomer and his company made their way back to their camp, the loud and effeminate voice of Glavror still rang across the field, continuing his accusation. Some curious house servants joined the crowd not to miss the entertaining scene.

"So, Lothíriel, how was it like? Did you both have some rough fun in bed? Of course, with a body muscled like a maid's fantasy, did he make you scream? Did you beg him for more? Which position do you fancy the most? The beast way? Are you going to serve his bunch of unlearnt thugs too? Are-"

The speech came to an abrupt halt and silence when Glavror felt a burning sensation on his face. Many on-lookers brought their hands to cover their mouths in shock. Éomer turned slightly to glimpse over his shoulder. He saw Glavror standing vacantly, mouth opened, with both his hands on his cheek.

Lothíriel had slapped him.

"These unlearnt brutes are no murderers! Get out of my sight, Glavror! You disgust me!"

"You-"

She interrupted him before he could continue."The wise say shallow thoughts intoxicate the brain. But, I discover today that your brain is but merely air! You have attempted insulting me with every untruth you could possibly fabricate. There is nothing more you can say now! Leave before I call the guards!"

Taken aback by her defensive retaliation, Glavror realised the situation was not at his advantage anymore. Fear and shame impelled him to turn back.

"You will regret this, Lothíriel!" With a hand still covering his red and swollen cheek, shamed into anger, he retreated from Imrahil's camp.

The crowd dissolved soon after Glavror left, seeing there was no more that interested them.

Imrahil gestured to one of his guards and whispered. His lips read, "Find out who is behind it." The decision was only made less than few hours ago and had been kept confidential to his best knowledge. Then there was Glavror charging at his child. He was not impressed at all, he needed to know whose those loose lips belonged to.

**TBC**

**Chapter 13: **Imrahil's role is not to be underestimated & Lothíriel's journey to Rohan begins!**  
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><p><strong>Footnote:<strong>

**[1]Accede: **(_verb_)agree


	13. of Stews and Riddles

**Review acknowledgement!**

**Sic Vita Est: Thank you so much for following my story until now. Yes, she goes to Rohan but not in Edoras yet!**

**b5delenn: I will make sure they have some fun getting along! Glavror is a just abnormal like his family.**

**AHealingRenaissance: The danger will shake Dol Amroth soon :)**

**Volenska: Éothain is fun! I am trying to include some 'screentime' for him!**

**Shy: Thank you! I hope you will like this chapter too!**

**Rogue's Queen: Hope this chapter will not disappoint you!**

**To all other anon readers: Thank you and enjoy the story :)**

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><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>**

_**Chapter 13: of Stews and Riddles**_

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><p>Imrahil's Camp.<p>

21st July 3019 T.A.

Leaning down and laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, Imrahil brought himself to level with the young boy in front of him.

"Tell me again, Hannor. What happened?"

Surveying his surrounding, the orphan appeared frightened by the huge number of knights standing in Imrahil's tent. Imrahil's eldest, Elphir, could not hide his suspicion when he looked at the young boy.

Reading the boy's thought, he smiled. "Nobody is going to hurt you, I promised. I am Lady Lothíriel's father. Just tell me what happened after she spoke to you yesterday morning."

"I went back to the orphanage to pack my clothes. And, when I was going up the gate to meet Lady Lothíriel, a man came to talk to me." Hannor answered timidly, fear still had not subsides from his eyes.

"Was he a plump man, with shiny hair so sleek that when a fly lands, it will slip?" Imrahil smiled at the boy, making gesture of a fly falling from his head. Adding a little humour might help to ease the child's fear.

"Yes, his hair looked like he had washed it in a barrel of oil."

"What did he say to you?"

"He asked if Lady Lothíriel was my friend and I said yes. He told me that he was a friend of hers too and he said he could not find her and asked if I knew where she was."

"What did you say, Hannor?"

"I told him I did not know."

"Did he say anything else?"

"He asked if we were going somewhere."

This was going better than Imrahil thought. Trying to get a frightened child to speak was never easy. He did not believe when his guards reported the sighting of Glavror talking to Hannor that Hannor would have said something he did not know.

"Tell me every word that he said."

"He said, 'You are leaving, aren't you? Do you know where you are going?'"

"Hmmm," These words made Imrahil frowned further. He was trying to formulate the whole incident.

"Am I in trouble, my lord? I did not know where we were going, so I told him I don't know..."

The worried look on Hannor's faced stung Imrahil a little. Had he been too hard on the child? He held him by his small shoulders and softened his tone further. "No, my child. Nobody is in any trouble. You have done well."

"Is Lady Lothíriel angry with me?"

"No, she is not angry with you, silly. She is more than happy to have you by her side. Listen, Hannor. Lady Lothíriel is very precious to me, like you are to her. I want you to stay close to her when you are in Rohan. Tell Lord Éomer if you find anything or anyone strange around her. Can you do that for me, Hannor?" Taking the boy's hands in his, Imrahil asked, staring into those innocent eyes.

"Yes, my lord. I promise."

"That is very good. Thank you, Hannor."

Imrahil signalled and ordered one of his guards to escort the boy back to the orphanage.

"Father, do you think that child told the truth?" Elphir asked as soon as Hannor left the tent.

"There are no lies in his eyes, Elphir."

"Did he tell Glavror then?"

"No. It was not him." Touching his chin with his hand, Imrahil peered across his spacious tent. His face was masked by a thoughtful scowled expression. "Someone used the poor kid as a scapegoat, hoping we would fall for it, putting the blame on him."

"How can you tell?"

"Approaching Hannor in broad daylight and allowing himself to be sighted by our guards were his tricks. If you heard the boy correctly, Elphir, Glavror actually said 'You are leaving, aren't you?' So, he knew your sister was planning to leave Minas Tirith before he spoke to Hannor. Someone told him. Someone that we have overlooked."

"Who do you think that might be, Father?"

"I cannot be certain, Elphir. We can only wait and see." His eyes narrowed.

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><p>Same day.<p>

Éomer's camp.

Éomer swiped away the sweat from his forehead as he handed the reins of Firefoot to one of his Royal Guards. He went out for a quick ride with his steed. He needed a break to recover the disquiet for the past few days. Still catching his breaths, he pushed the sleeves of his tent and was surprised to find someone standing next in front of the tapestries _**[1]**_, both elegant hands wrapped behind his back, studying the details on the fabric minutely. When Éomer entered his tent, the uninvited guest turned his head and smiled in greeting.

"Rohan's tapestries are impressive." He remarked.

Peeling off his black leather gloves and placing them on the table with his helm, Éomer said without giving attention to his guest, "I would have expected more manner from you, Elphir, son of Imrahil."

"I told your guards that I came bearing the news from my father. He let me in." Elphir showed his signature smile. Like his other brothers, he inherited much of his father's features. Tall and fair with mesmerising grey eyes.

Elphir surveyed the blond man in front of him with great weight. Tangled unmanageable hair with the front locks tied in a half pony tail, untrimmed his beard running along his jaw line from ear to ear and grimed sun-tanned skin – all the features of a rough unkempt warrior. Éomer's ability to remain immaculately groomed yet still radiate a prominent aura of authority by just a single twitch of his eyes and brows, was always something he found amusing.

"Good to know you have found something to keep yourself occupied all this time." Éomer's tone was either friendly nor upset. He leaned forward to reach for a ceramic pitcher. Pouring himself some water, hands on the table supporting his weight, he eyes never left Imrahil's offspring as he sipped down the water.

Elphir's lips curved into an amused smile. "How did the ride go?"

Lowering the mug, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand, Éomer shrugged and replied without giving much thought. "As usual. There is not much to see in Minas Tirith." Like his riders, he preferred green plains.

"Perhaps, one day, you should come to Dol Amroth. I am sure you would find the sea interesting."

"One day, perhaps." Placing the cast iron mug aside on the table, Éomer rose to his height. "What do you want, Elphir?" He probed. He knew Elphir did not come to see him bearing news from Imrahil.

Éomer was friendlier when he spoke his father, Elphir chuckled lightly. He continued to examine the blond man. At his full height in his heavy reddish-brown silver-tarnished armour, a valiant warchief, Éomer always appeared intimidating to those around him. Elphir could understand why the maids in Minas Tirith had been talking and would squall when the Horselord was present. Some women found dangerous men mysterious and attractive.

"I come here to talk about my sister."

Éomer's brows rose slightly, his eyes glinted.

"I have discussed it thoroughly with your father. Rohan welcomes a _diplomat_ from Gondor. There is no more that I can add."

"As far as I understand, you agreed to my father's request under one condition."

Appeared to be not listening, Éomer grabbed some grapes from the fruit basket and took his time to chew the fruits thoroughly. His remarkable restraint with table manner brought further amusement to Elphir. This rugged-looking man was also brought up with strict etiquette.

"That condition was discussed and your father consented to it." Éomer said with strong reservation in his voice, without looking at Elphir. He did not wish to dwell on this subject.

"Lord Éomer, I just want to say that do not undervalue my sister. She is a very capable woman. There will be times that you will find her a very beneficial asset to Rohan."

His straight eyebrow arched. "We will see."

"One last thing," Elphir stepped closer to the Horselord and said in a tone only audible to Éomer, "I love her as much as you love your sister. So, please, keep her safe."

Éomer threw him a quick look. He was a brother too, he easily derived Elphir's last three words – a warning that harm would come to Lothíriel and Elphir expected him to take necessary precautions.

"That has been taken into consideration. I promise your father that I will see to it personally." He reassured him.

"Thank you, my lord. Have a good day." Grinning, Elphir bowed and left. He was over the moon, not only because he was reassured that his sister would be safe but also she had just found herself a match who was equally strong in character as her. The more he learnt about that man, the more he admired him. That _one_ condition should not matter if the time came ripe at the end.

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><p>Post 22nd July 3019 T.A.<p>

The journey to Edoras was slow. King Théoden was laid in a banner-draped wooden casket that Éomer brought from Edoras. It was constructed with the best craftsmanship in Rohan with craving of horses and decorated with gold paint along the seams. The casket and the king's procession were secured on a shaded cart. There were eight horses pulling the cart. The Royal Guards all rode along their fallen king, four in front, three on each side, and the rest behind. Many had followed to honour the last journey of the King of Rohan. Éomer led the host with Gamling and Elfhelm beside him.

It was a three-hundred-and-fifty mile_**[2]**_ trip with frequent breaks in a day. The dwellers in Anorien paid their last respect to the fallen king by laying flowers along the Great West Road. They also came to offer food and drinks to the company. Many sang when the host went passed. The weather was kind to the host. The air stayed breezy day and night. The sun was hot but not unbearable.

The evening drew closer as the sun began to close its curtain. The party went passed Drúadan Forest and Nardol and was getting close to Erelas. Gamling called out for his king a few times but he did not seem to hear him. Dwelling in the pool of remembrance, Éomer continued abstractedly with his left hand holding the reins and his right hand a spear. Even though the Dark Lord had been defeated and destroyed, the evil that he bred still wandered on Middle-earth. Éomer took no chance. Encouraged by the slight freedom from its master, Firefoot was moving at a speed greater than the rest of the party. Gamling loped forward his mount to catch up the pace of his king.

"Lord Éomer?"

"Sorry, Gamling. I did not hear you." Realising that he was lost in his thought, he turned to his adviser with a slight apologetic expression.

"The night is falling. We have covered more than twenty miles today. Perhaps, it is time to rest. This is a good place to camp for the night. There is a small stream. Men and beasts could do with it." His old friend said, pointing to the shimmering flow not far ahead.

"That would be good. See that everything is in order, Gamling."

"Yes, my lord."

Gamling pulled the left reins of his charger and rode back to the host. In a loud and clear voice, he shouted, "We will camp near to the stream ahead. Make ready."

Thus, the company stopped when they came before the stream. The camps were assembled and a few campfires were kindled. Provisions were laid and food preparation was in progress. Éomer squinted at the figures around the fire trying to prepare something edible. His men took turns to do the cooking. They were a massive party. One pair of hands would not be enough to organise everything.

He found a higher ground and settled himself there. Overlooking the plains and the moving shadows around the campfires, he let out a soft sigh.

"Are you feeling well?" His Gondorian counterpart asked, approaching him and sitting next to him.

"I am."

"You seem really quiet today."

"It is exhausting." He responded softly.

Aragorn knew the journey was a mental torment, seeing people coming to pay their respect and crying over the casket was never an easy emotion to handle.

"Éomer, if you ever need anything, if Rohan ever needs anything, just tell me." Placing his hand on the young man's shoulder, Aragorn gave his friend a reassuring squeeze.

"Appreciation noted." His lips curled into a smile.

A happy uproar across the camp caught both their attention. Lothíriel was seen busy distributing food to everyone who gathered around her.

"I heard Imrahil's daughter is going to Rohan as a diplomat." His older friend turned to him and smiled.

"And?" Éomer could not help but draw a frown on his face.

The King of Gondor raised an eyebrow at his friend's reaction, eyeing him doubtfully. "Is there something I should know?"

"Lord Imrahil offered and I accepted," he murmured.

"I did not know you had some dealings with Imrahil. _Behind close doors_." The older king teased him.

Éomer rolled his eyes. "Let's just say it has been settled."

"Oh…" His friend responded with a long sound.

"It is not what you think." Éomer rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Care to explain?"

"No and it ends here." He put a stop to their discussion.

"What ends here?"

A voice rang above them and they above looked up to find Lothíriel standing in front of them with a loaf of brown bread, two very large wooden bowls and spoons in one hand and a pot of steaming stew in the other. There was ash fly on her face and hair. Her apron did not look very clean either. There was some trace of blood on it, probably from some livestock which were unfortunate to meet their ends on a chopping board.

She gazed at both the sitting men. It was two very different reactions she received – Éomer snorted and turned his head away; Aragorn just smiled politely at her.

"You should eat, my Lord Kings," she placed the cast iron pot on the ground and filled one yew_**[3]**_ bowl with some stew and passed it to Aragorn together with a spoon and the loaf of bread. Aragorn happily accepted her offer but showed some suspicion after looking at the content in his bowl, remembering the last stew he had from Éowyn.

Sensing his doubt, Lothíriel explained, "It is called the Stew of the Kings _**[4]**_ and has been prepared with marinated chicken and beef, then braised with taters and garnished with chopped sprigs of parsley. It is an ancient recipe from Annuminas, a meal only prepared for a king and his knights on the eve of battle."

"Oh….." Deliberately showing a surprised expression, the Dunedain's eyes darted from the stew in his hands to Lothíriel's face. Slowly he lifted the spoon and brought a piece of meat close and into his mouth, and he took his time to chew it. Lothíriel watched Aragorn closely, trying to suppress her laughter. The expression on the Gondorian King's face was too comical.

"It is very delicious. Thank you," Aragorn praised after trying the dish.

"No, thank you, my lord," she smiled, not able to hold the laughter in her voice.

Éomer stared at his Ranger friend with a guarded face, not convinced by his words.

"It is really good. You should try it," Aragorn took another spoon. His confidence to stews somehow had been replenished.

A little annoyed and offended by Éomer's reaction, her lips stretched into a flat line. Lothíriel filled the second bowl to its very full and just shovelled it into Éomer's hands, ignoring his immediate response.

"I _slaughtered_ and prepared the poor animals _myself_ if that sounds reassuring at all, my lord?" She pronounced unhappily, tilting her head aside, her mouth curved wryly. Why had she agree to come here to deliver the dinner? If it was not for Éothain who kept reminding her that his king had not eaten much today, she won't either bother! Why did she push herself to meet him again when all she wanted was to avoid him? And now all she received was a snort and suspicios look. She must have boiled her brain while she was cooking.

Éomer pulled a long face, examining the steaming-hot brownish stew in the yew bowl.

"For Valar's sake, it is not poison!" She gestured with a sign annoyance.

Lifting the pot of stew, she turned to Aragorn and gave him a quick bow, "Have a good evening, my Lord Kings." With that she went heading back to the camp.

"I will get Hannor to collect the bowls and spoons. _Finish_ it." Her voice trailed off.

That was intended for Éomer.

"What?" Annoyed, Éomer barked at his friend, seeing the amusement that escaped from his lips.

"Nothing. I was saying you should eat before it..turns….. cold….," lifting a spoonful of stew in front of his face, Aragorn said slowly. Amusement continued to flash in his eyes as he looked at his young friend.

"Whatever," Éomer murmured.

Much to everyone's delight, the evening was becoming lively. Most had gathered around the camp fire to sing songs and share jokes. Leading the pack, Éothain decided to start with riddle games. However he found that he was losing his edge. The crowd excreted with loud laughter and followed by occasional clapping.

"I can't keep losing!" Éothain declared his dissatisfaction. His face sulked.

"Who keeps winning?" A deep voice came from above them.

Everyone looked up and saw the two kings standing side by side. Éomer did not seem at all offended by the bubbly atmosphere. In fact, he welcomed the change of air. From the beginning the journey to Edoras was suffocating him. It was always good to have a different bit of a breather.

"Lord Éomer! King Elessar!" The crowd exclaimed. Then someone offered, "Would you like to join us? We are exercising our minds with some riddle games!"

"Or, should we say the riddles exercise Éothain's brain!" said one of Éomer's riders. The crowd laughed again.

"Ah," Aragorn could not hold back his laugh. "So, who is the riddle master?"

"It depends who wins. And I lose again." Éothain admitted his defeat.

"Do you want to start, Éomer?" Aragorn turned to his friend, inviting him to a challenge.

Éomer moved forward, his riders squeezed among themselves to empty out a space for their king. The crowd roared once the young king sat down. He began, "_In people, I am scorned, In structures,I am feared. In sounds, I am harsh. But in strength, I am king._"

Most of the crowd looked bewildered at his first riddle. They were not getting it.

"What is that with sounds, structures and king?" muttered one of the Gondorian knights.

Standing behind the crowd, overhearing the riddle, whilst drying her hands, Lothíriel simply answered, "Rude or rudeness."

All heads turned towards her.

Éomer raised one of his straight eyebrows at her. Not willing to admit the answer, his words came out at a very slow pace. "That is cor-rect."

"Would you like to join us, Lady Lothíriel?" Aragorn extended his hand politely.

"If that does not spoil your fun."

Aragorn then turned his head slowly to see at Éomer, expecting an answer from him.

"Anyone can join the game!" Without waiting for an answer from his King, Éothain stood up and offered his place to the lady. His King watched wordlessly.

"Ahem," clearing his throat, Éomer resumed the game, "_Listening to me will bring visions to mind,__of dragons and castles and kingdoms declined.__Am I fact or just fancy? It is up for debate.__But one thing is for certain: I am unlikely sedate!_"

"Story!" Her answer was full of confidence.

"Your turn, my lady."

"_I am the ocean during a terrible storm. I gain strength from fights and heated words. My greatest enemy is calm_," she smirked at him, the challenge in her eyes was evident.

"Anger." Crisp and short, a straight hit to the red eye.

"That is correct." Not anticipating him to know the answer, now she found herself repeating his word with the very same tone.

Taking a sip from her mug, she continued, "_I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird flying to heaven. I birth tears of sorrow in pupils that meet me, and at once on my birth, I vanish like a spark_."

"Smoke."

"Fine. Your turn," said in a bitter tone, she appeared rather unimpressed with his prompt response, whilst the riders went on applauding for their king. The riddle game carried on for a few rounds before Éothain eventually decided to break the dual battle between his king and the Gondorian lady. For him, draw at each round was too _boring_, only defeats and wins were defined as fun in his dictionary.

The last riddle from Lothíriel landed her with some considerable embarrassment that forced her to blush so heavily that she had to excuse herself from the crowd. She had not thought Éomer would have known it. Her riddle went : _I am just two and two. I am hot. I am cold. I am the parent of numbers that cannot be told. I am a gift beyond measure, a matter of course, and I am yielded with pleasure— then taken by force._

And Éomer was staring straight into her sea-grey irises; the fires sparkled in his amber eyes. His reply came out in the most hypnotising and ambigious tone to her ears. The answer was **_a kiss_**.

The crowd went wild.

**TBC**

**Chapter 14: She finally came into terms with her own feeling.  
><strong>

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><p><em><strong>Footnotes<strong>_

_**[1]**_ As observed in the tent of Théoden at Dunharrow.

**_[2]_** 350 miles as calculated from The Atlas of Middle Earth. Journey to Edoras from Minas Tirith takes 15 days. The company will have to cover 23 miles per day.

**_[3]_** Yew: a type of tree, known for use as tableware

_**[4]**_A dish from LOTRO, Artisan cook recipe. I like the name and the fact that it is from Annuminas, it bears more sense to use it.

_**[5]**_ All riddles are extracted selectively from Riddles Beneath The Inn (LOTRO ingame quest). They are also available on the internet.


	14. of Promise and Intoxication

**Announcing the special appearance by one of our most underated Riders - Marshal **Éothain**!  
><strong>

**Acknowledgements**

**Sic Est Vita: Thank you for your constant support! :) The footnotes now come without numbering. I hope it won't be too confusing anymore.**

**Shy: Oh yeah, their chemstry just escalates to another level. The drafts of some rather sensual scene for future chapters are ready... ;)**

**Rogue's Queen: Hope this plot meets up to your expectation too! :D**

**b5delenn: It looks like Lothíriel warms up more than she needs to! Hoho!**

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><p><strong>Reading guide for Chapter 14<strong>

To avoid confusion, the timeline of events happen in the order of: **_ I. Before dawn_** - **_II. Morning breakfast_** **_- III. Earlier that day, after breakfast at Éothain's campfire_** - _**IV. Midday**_ .

This chapter is constructed to keep the highlight of the day (i.e. **_Earlier that day, after breakfast at Éothain's campfire_**) at the end so it does not follow the chronological order of time.

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><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

_**Chapter 14: of Promise and Intoxication**_

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><p><span>Before dawn.<span>

Éomer woke up earlier than usual. He did have a sound sleep without dreams. He took that he had rested well. The night was warm which was expected. It was midsummer after all. Sweet vapours rose from the earth. Night dews were still clinging to the soil and the plants glistened. Birds were calling to one another. The sky was not dawning yet. The stillness of the morning set an urge for him to swing his sword. He laid the leather sword belt over his chest and lifted the sleeve of his tent, heading outside.

The flow of stream sounded louder than during the day. But there was something else or someone talking in a quiet voice. He turned his attention to the direction which the noise came from. Under the grey mist, two shadowy figures caught his eyes. Suspicion drove his feet forward. His heavily booted footsteps seemed to glide soundlessly over the grass. As he drew himself closer, the shadowy figures lost their dark shades and began to take some kind of recognisable shapes. There, oddly enough he found the daughter of Imrahil lurking suspiciously with her bare feet in the stream with a man bearing the signature green Rohirric cloak on his back. That man was no other than his young Marshal of the Royal Guards - Éothain.

Unaware of his presence, they continued uttering lowly to each other. Their sibilant exchange only drove the curiosity in Éomer further.

"Stop, you will scare it," she hissed.

"No, let me."

"It is not working."

"No, it will work," Éothain insisted.

"I grew up next to the sea. I know what works."

"Sea is different from streams," the young Marshal reminded her.

Éomer moved in closer, close enough to be standing a few inches behind the two figures that were so absorbed into their common interest.

"Where is it now?" Her eyes were in search for something.

"Have we lost it?"

"I would not have thought so."

"Can you see it?" Inquired the young rider.

"Hmmmm...oh! It is here!" She exclaimed like a child.

"Where?" Squeezing his blue eyes, he still could not see it.

"Here! Try it now!" She pulled his sleeve vigorously, pointing at a particular direction in the stream.

"Let's see if we can get it," biting his lower lips, Éothain aimed at his target, getting ready to give a shot.

"You missed! Let me try!" She removed the item from his hands and looked at her target with full focus.

"_What_ are you both doing?"

Éomer's voice from behind startled them and almost made Lothíriel jump on her feet. Something in her hands fell into the stream and the water splashed everywhere.

"What in Valar's name was that? What are you doing? Creeping up like that?" She turned around and barked at him through gritted teeth, her voice was furious. Her eyes gleamed in rage under the soon disappeared moon light.

"Investigating a suspicious activity if that is how you like to hear it!" Knowing that he could not expect a just response from her, Éomer turned his head to his Marshal and raised an eyebrow at him. "Explain yourself, Éothain."

"Good morning, Lord Éomer. We….we are, I meant, we were trying to catch some fish." Feeling being caught red-handed, Éothain scratched his head uncomfortably, his eyebrows lowered indicating guilt. He could feel his king's hard glare on him.

"Fishing? Do you not have anything else or better to do, Marshal?" He shot at the younger rider with a look of disbelief.

"I do." He answered in an almost inaudible tone, his head lowered.

"So?"

"I, er..." The younger man threw Lothíriel a look with sympathy.

"Éothain?" He raised his voice.

"I am sorry, my lord. We meant no trouble." He apologised, his eyes seeking forgiveness.

"Your task. Go and get it done." Beckoned the younger man to return to the camp, Éomer found his tone softer upon his apology. He kept his eyes on Éothain until the he reached the campfire to begin his assigned task of the day: preparing breakfast.

"And you!" He turned back to Lothíriel slowly. His brows frowned and anger was once again inevitable in his dark eyes. Stressing every word out of his lips, he came close to her face. "How many times do I have to remind you?"

"Remind me what?"

"Could you at least make some effort to use the very limited _wisdom_ of yours to save yourself some trouble?"

His emphasis on the word 'wisdom' displeased her further.

"I beg your pardon?" Indignation gushed from her voice. She did not take insult lightly. "I am not stupid."

"Of course, clever enough to actually do some fishing when it is still dark?" He could not help being ironic.

"There are dozens other things to keep yourself entertained, why do you have to get yourself into a mess every time?" He continued. He moved in closer and stared down at her, taking advantage of his height. His nostrils flared. His lips protracted, showing his white teeth. Why did he always have to revisit the same issue? This woman held no regard at all for her life!

"What is your problem?" She asked.

"Why on the Middle-earth you have to do the unthinkable?"

"Fishing is not unthinkable! It only harms the fish!"

"My lady," He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly to regain some control over his temper. "Please, do you not understand?" His breaths mingled with the moist in the air.

"I did not recall that fishing was forbidden, unless it is defined differently in Rohan. And, I have not caused any trouble to anyone!" She protested, tipping her toes to meet his gaze bravely, returning them with an equally enraged stare. She hated his accusing tone. Her fuming eyes followed him closely until they came down to his almost bare chest. She quickly broke them away from him. The linen shirt he had on was laced in front. Given the warm climate, he let the laces loose and his muscled front held considerable appeal to her.

He took that as she gave in. He drew another long, deep breath, eyes closed, trying to adjust his emotion.

"This is not about fishing." He held his eyes on her and continued to explain. "If it was not for Éothain, the riders and the knights might have mistaken you as an intruder. You wear nothing bearing the emblem of Dol Amroth or Gondor and yet you were acting furtively. They won't be able to tell who you were in the dark. No questions asked. All you would get is a dart to the chest. In fact, I could've pulled the bow myself!" He made a gesture of an arrow thrusting on his chest.

Still refused to look at him, he saw the corner of her lips flinched and her eyes blinked.

"Your father trusts me with your safety." He regarded her with a sigh. "I promise him I will never pt your life at risk." His voice was gentle.

She glanced up at him. Feeling the flame of anger had died down within her, her attitude softened. She admitted, "Éothain has nothing to do with this. It was my idea."

"He will not be purnished and -" His eyes followed her milder expression, but his sentence was interrupted with a sudden unease grasp, his eyes jumped aside to the dark mountains behind her and he could not bring up what he wanted to say.

Detecting the hesitance in his voice and his bizarre reaction, she probed, "And what?"

"You should get changed. You are soaked." His eyes were unsettling but remained off her.

The abruptness of his last words surprised her. She looked down at herself and her long lashes fluttered in annoyance. The skirt of her cotton dress was wet not only from having stood in the water for all this times but also the splashing when she dropped her fishing net. Her top was also damp having absorbed the liquid from the stream and some splashing that managed to jump high enough to meet it. The fabric was sticking onto her skin, revealing her curvy figure which might otherwise be well concealed beneath her garment. She cursed. Modesty never agrees with water.

"Excuse me." Her voice dripped with embarrassment. She did not bother to bow. She went dashing back to her tent, wanting to change as quickly as possible.

He followed her steps from the corners of his eyes. The frown that sat between his brows remained still. Then, he saw a large fishing net lying idly on stones beneath the clear flowing stream.

* * *

><p><span>Morning, breakfast.<span>

By the time, she finished changing; the land was beginning to wake up with a glorious sunbeam, breaking through the mist. As she emerged from her tent, the breeze brushed her cheeks and a few loose strands that escaped from her dark braid flew freely in the damp air. There were chalks and thin leather parchments in her hands. She needed to keep herself occupied rather than getting into troubles as suggested earlier.

Heading to the main campfire, Lothíriel found herself an empty space at the campfire.

"We have bread, porridge, sausages, bacons, ham and eggs. What do you prefer, my lady?" asked Éothain, the cook of the morning.

"Everything!" She was absolutely starving.

"Oh, right away!" The young man beamed her a bright smile as if nothing just happened at the stream.

After a few minutes, a plate of freshly prepared breakfast came into her sights.

"Thank you." She gave the cook a polite smile.

"So, what did my king say to you?" Éothain leaned forward driven by his noosey nature.

"Come on, Éothain." She waved him off.

"Just tell me. I want to know what he says to a woman." He showed his trademark grin. Over the journey, their friendship blossomed, partly because Éothain learnt to admire her character when they had their board game in May, and but also Amrothos held some significant influence changing the opinion of the young man about his sister. Amrothos remained close and kept contact with Éothain after he returned to Dol Amroth in June.

"Why don't you ask him?" She preferred to have some peace with her breakfast.

"He is not going to tell me." Leaning backwards, he put a straight face.

"Well, he is your superior, your captain, your king. You should have known what he would say."

"The usual thing then."

"Yes." She laughed. In her heart, she was relieved that Éothain bought her words. The conversation she had with Éomer down the stream was not something she wanted to share. It was not her finest moment, she must admit.

"That is disappointing! I was expecting some exciting subjects."

"Such...as...?" Sipping her tea, she asked carefully and prayed her had the heart to anticipate any dodgy speculation that Éothain had developed in his brain.

"That your dress was wet!" He leaned forward again and whispered to her.

She nearly spit all her tea out. Choking at the backflow of the liquid in her mouth, she coughed a few times. Trying to catch some air, she pressed her hand on her chest to calm herself. Although sounding more preservative than usual, Éothain's reply hit on the right spot. For once, Lothíriel thanked Valar from the bottom of her heart that nobody was sitting next to her.

"Oh my, are you all right, my lady?" Grabbing a napkin, Éothain quickly passed it to her.

Nodding to him a few times, she drew a deep breath. "Is that what you think of your king, Éothain? That is shallow!"

"My King is a capable captain. He pays attention to details, if that is how you call it. Besides, you are not such an ugly woman." He commented with a hope in his voice trying to unearth the mysterious connection between his king and this young lady of Dol Amroth.

Unlike Gamling and Elfhelm, Éothain did not know the agreed condition regarding her deployment to Rohan. He was in Imrahil's tent with his king but he was not included the conversation. It was not that Éomer did not trust him; otherwise he would not have promoted to be the Marshal of the Royal Guards. Despite his excellent and responsive sense to threats and dangers, the young Marshal had a notorious tendency to slur out everything he knew when he had more than a few pints in his stomach. One such instance included an unintentional remark that Éomer made about a daughter of a local woodworker at the celebration in Meduseld after their victory at Helm's Deep. By the next morning, every rider in Edoras knew Third Marshal of the Riddermark called the poor girl a swamp donkey.

"Thanks for the compliment and he definitely does," she murmured, taking another sip of her tea.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing."

"So, tell me, do you not find my King alluring?" Éothain was as noosey as a woman could be.

"Éothain, for the start, I won't use the word _alluring_ on a man. That sounds wrong." She poked her fork at him.

"But almost every woman I spoke to, in Rohan, agrees he is handsome."

"Not everyone in Gondor agrees." She disagreed just for the sake of shaking off her thought about him which she devised earlier at the stream.

"Well, I have seen some Gondorian women blushed heavily and gathered around just to take a look at him."

"Oh, lucky him!" She could not suppress the sarcasm in her voice.

"Even your maid, Moriel, I have caught her peeking at my King a few times."

"I am sure she just shares the same opinion with the rest of the women on Middle-earth." She continued her breakfast with some scrambled egg, trying not to show too much interest in the subject hoping that Éothain would eventually drop it.

"Hey, my King is handsome! He might look a bit rough and worn. But he is the most admirable man I've ever met! He is a real man! You should see when he swings Gúthwinë!" Defending his superior, his eyes shone suddenly with beams of adulation.

"If you say so."

"He took down two Mûmakils with one spear."

"I've heard that."

"He returned from Black Gate unscathed after fighting tens of thousands of orcs." He continued his effort trying to impress her with the great deeds of his King.

"Heard that too." Her perfunctorious response earned her a sharp look from Éothain.

"Do you not like him?"

"Look, I don't hate him." She clarified then on second thought, she added, "And, he finished my stew. That certainly counts as another decent attribute."

"But you do not agree with me." He pointed at her with his sticky egg-soaked ladle.

"Éothain," she sighed. "Why do we have to keep discussing your mighty King?"

Beneath her calm mask, she was very nervous and worried that any of her response might give away that Éomer somehow had some momentary appeal from time to time on her. Something which she hated to admit and kept bringing herself to denial.

"Most women I spoke to find this discussion rather interesting." He said admittedly.

"May I suggest that you could continue this discussion with _most_ women?"

"Fine, we stop here, my lady. I just got carried away, you know." He shrugged.

"So, Prince Imrahil is here only with your second brother, Erchirion, isn't it?" Changing the subject, he asked about her family which accompanied the procession of King Théoden.

"Elphir had to return to Dol Amroth on the day we departed Minas Tirith."

"Are there urgent matters to settle in Dol Amroth?"

"Yes, there are."

Her expression sunk. His change of subject pulled a painful chord in her heart. Her eldest brother went back to her homeland to investigate possible turbulence between traders, farmers and fishermen. And of course, she knew clearly that he was also there to oversee the rising power of the Guild of Tradesmen. Somehow she felt she was partly responsible for this. And she missed Elphir and Amrothos dearly. She missed her home too.

Deciding that she did not wish to dwell on this paining subject, beaming Éothain a smile, she returned the plate and mug to him. "Thank you, Éothain! It was very good. I am going to find something to occupy myself with."

Whilst she roamed around trying to find an ideal location to fill her mind before the company resumed their journey, not far from the campfire stood Imrahil observing his daughter closely. Erchirion came up to his father.

"Elphir told me that King Éomer accepted your requisition under one condition." He said without looking at his father.

"Yes."

"Father, do you mind telling me?"

There was a short pause before Imrahil decided to respond.

"Erchirion, I have not seen Lothíriel smile so much lately." Ignoring his son's question, Imrahil continued. "She is happier and her thoughts are no longer dark. My only wish that it would stay that way for the rest of her whole life."

Then he sighed.

"That one condition that Lord Éomer suggested and I consented, is," he turned to his son, putting a hand on his shoulder, and he answered, "that Lothíriel will _never_ be the Queen of Rohan."

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><p><span>Midday.<span>

It was their first break of the day. The air was warm today. Gamling suggested stopping after they passed the Beacon of Erelas. Éomer led the company to a plain with some seeps plentiful for beasts and men. The water was Valar-sent for many. It was cool and refreshing.

Lothíriel climbed up the fruit wagon to pick a few. Some fruits started to show signs of being overripe and were turning soft. It was a waste to throw them away but if kept, they bore no comestible temptation to men. They would just be left in the basket and rot. Unlike men, animals did not judge an offer by its appearance as long as it filled their stomachs.

Wrapping the collection of soft and overly ripe fruits in her aprons, she paced towards the group of steeds, quenching their thirst near water source. Whilst most beasts welcomed a free treat, Firefoot appeared unimpressed with her presence. He snorted loudly a few times. The contents of his large nostrils made some evident presence on a poor mare next to him.

She continued to ignore him, only giving out the fruits to friendlier animals. But that did not please him either.

The grey stallion raised his head quickly and kept his stare on her. His ears were pulled back and flattened into his mane. After announcing his disapproval with a loud squeak, he pulled his huge lips back, baring his big yellow teeth. Agitated, he flexed his hard muscles under his grey coat and his hoofs made loud stamping noise.

"Grumpy beast. Like master like horse!" She muttered, throwing the animal an equally intimidating look.

"Back!" Someone barked at the horse in Rohirric.

Firefoot immediately turned all his attention to his master. His teeth were bared no more but replaced by a grin. Éomer walked closer and gestured his steed to go to him and predictably the beast did.

"Unbelievable." Using the scepticism in her voice to conceal her unease, Lothiriel continued to feed the other horses without turning to look at him. She was sure she did not want him to see her face.

Her hands were trembling nervously. Still partially frightened by her thoughts brought about by her last drawing, she found herself increasingly affected by his presence. With her back to him, she took a few deep breaths and continued to hide herself under her cool exterior. But her heart was racing fiercely in her chest. The sound of her heart beat echoed loudly and relentless in her ears.

"He is a warhorse. Not a livestock trained to be friendly with anyone who comes near him," Patting the grey stallion passionately on his neck, Éomer defended his four-legged friend.

She needed to make some effort to prescind herself from his effect. "That explains well why he only likes _you_." Submitting a strong hint of irony in her voice, she continued dishing out the fruits to all the willing animals.

Having accustomed to her attitude over the past few months, he just ignored her last statement.

"The stew was excellent."

The praise sprang out of the context of their current conversation.

Her busy hands feeding the horses stopped, she turned her head slowly to look at him, finding herself disbelieved with what she just heard. The Horselord was not the most humble person and certainly not the most generous with compliments.

"We are leaving shortly. Make ready." He beckoned her with a gesture of acknowledgement and pulled his steed away.

She watched his figure shrink to no more than the size of an apple. She let out a heavy breath that she had been holding. And the incident this morning rushed back to her like old stories.

* * *

><p><span>Earlier that day, after breakfast at Éothain's campfire.<span>

The foggy morning remained still with heavily suspended moist. Over the greens, Lothíriel found a rise just beneath a tree. Gathering the skirt of her short-sleeved dress, she positioned herself against the tree. Whilst deciding the subject of the day, the distinct sound of a weapon unsheathing caught her ears. She turned and in the silver mist, she saw a man holding a long sword in his right hand with another palm almost touching the double-edged blade. The blade glittered under the rising sun. His stance remained still for a while. His eyes followed the length of the fullured blade to its tip. She saw his face when he looked up. The King of Rohan was about to begin his practice of sword-fighting.

_You should see when he swings Gúthwinë!_ Éothain's words just before echoed in her ears. Settling her tools around her, she beheld her eyes on him. Gúthwinë was a long sword. It seemed too heavy for a normal man to wield it, yet Éomer was only grasping it with one hand. In a slow and smooth motion, his wrist moved the long sword with great precision. Swinging the weapon as if it was light as a feather, each stroke was accompanied by surprising elements of elegance and fluidity. Her eyes widened. She watched in complete amazement. Unaware that her eyes never left him as he repositioned himself at every swing, she was completely fascinated by him and his demonstration of swordmanship. His long blond hair shone like molten gold and his half pony tail stirred in the wind, like a proud flying banner. She reached for her chalk and began drafting on the parchment. Her eyes darted between the leather parchments and him. Until now, she knew not a man with a sword could be so captivating.

He flourished his sword and renewed his stance. The blade tip was positioned above his head and went down diagonally with high speed. It met the moist grass but did not linger long and swung up again. The quick stroke caused the air to whistle and the veil of grey mist broke like shattered glass when he slashed the invisible breeze apart. His breathing was getting heavier and mingled with the still dew in the air. His teeth were clenched. His footing remained steady and balanced. The sun ray reflected on the uncountable sweat drops on his forehead, like diamond dust. His loose linen shirt began to snug on the moisture formed on his skin and it soon adhered to every inch of his flesh, exposing his well toned upper body which had the tendency to trigger temptation and wild dream amongst some of opposite gender. Now both his hands were on the hilt of his sword, Gúthwinë whiffled fiercely through the morning breeze with great strength. It became alive in his capable hands as if the two bronze horses coiling the hilt roared in anger. The sword and its owner merged into one being. The offensive thrust pierced the invisible enemy, followed by a turn at the hilt and an outward sweep switched to a parry. The blade glittered with perfection at each new step. Each strike danced in the air like white blazing flame, burning the vapour surrounding it. She squinted her eyes when a beam of reflected ray came blinding her.

For as long as he was practising with his sword, her eyes stayed on him. The images of an eminent warrior on the leather parchments came into shape and life under her skilful strokes. The last drawing was spellbinding to anyone who looked at it. Every feature was delivered with remarkable subtlety. His well-cut face that sat beneath his faintly lined forehead. His well-defined lips under the untrimmed beard. His high cheekbones with every freckle. His thick straight eyebrows and the scars that cut across them. And most importantly his pair of incisive eyes was translated so vividly that they drew and consumed every pair of eyes ever laid on them. She remembered every detail so well; even his scent seemed to linger around her. It was an intoxicating effect that man had on her. She felt herself falling for it. The frightening feature of this truth was that she could not help it.

Confounded by her own haunting thoughts, she grasped as if her lungs were deprived of air. Articulating her strange behaviour lately, her stomach flipped, she rose quickly to her feet and her clasp on the parchment went loose. The last piece of her finished drawing fell from her lap onto her feet. She stared down at it.

It was a close-up portrait.

Of Éomer_._

**TBC**

* * *

><p><strong>Footnotes<strong>

**Adulation**: (_noun_) excessive admiration

**Swamp donkey**: (_slang_) an ugly woman

**Seep**: (_noun_) **1**: a spot where a fluid such as water, oil, or gas contained in the ground oozes slowly to the surface and often forms a pool; **2**: a small spring

**Gúthwinë**: Éomer's sword which he inherited from his father, Éomund. The feature of this sword is based on Peter Jackson's Trilogy; bronze pommel and guard of horseheads, red leather bound handle, double-edged blade

**Parchment**:** (noun)1****:** the skin of a sheep or goat prepared for writing on; **2****:** strong, tough, and often somewhat translucent paper made to resemble parchment

**Parry**: an action of hindering a sword attack by clashing it with a weapon. (One usually parries an attack with a sword and blocks with a shield)

**Whiffled**: a whistling sound that a sword makes when swung with great speed in air


	15. of Kitchen and Yearlings

**Acknowledgements:**

**Glory Bee: Thank you again for being my faithful reader! I wonder how long it would take him too. I have drafted the part which he eventually realised but it might be a chapter or two more.**

**Shy: Thank you so much for making the effort despite forgetting your password! I hope you can find your password or simply re-register!**

**b5delenn: Thank you for the motivation :D I think the friendship that grows between Éothain and Lothíriel. Éothain is just full of character! He is always full of surprises!**

**AHealingRenaissance: Thank you very much ;) Sometimes the more we defy it, the strong it gets - at least I would like to think that way.**

**Reading note:**

**Some might find this chapter a bit lengthy. I am sorry! It needs to be the foundation for the next chapter which will change the relationship between **Éomer and Lothíriel** forever.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<em>**

_**Chapter 15: of Kitchen and Yearlings**_

* * *

><p><em>The furthest distance in the world is not being apart while being in love<br>But when plainly cannot resist the yearning yet pretending you have never been in my heart._

~ Anonymous

"We just arrived at the camp. We were dead tired and everyone was very much so in need of sleep. Though at night, the place seemed haunted. There was something implacable that kept watching us. Strange noises were coming from everywhere, making sound that resembled high pitched demon voices if you like. I heard them, mocking us and laughing, yet they were invisible to our naked eyes. Peculiar as it was, it seemed to pose no threats. So we were once inside our safe tent, we felt at ease, longing for our well deserved sleep," he began.

"However, it appeared that the high pitched demon voices longed for something as well. For us. Suffering. Badly. The noises took a new height, both in voice and altitude. They elevated themselves to unreachable heights, disguised themselves with the cloak of the night."

"They! They prepared to strike. And strike they did," he continued, widening his eyes with animated gesture.

"Our earned nightly peace was interrupted by a sudden thump. Subtle as it was, it was enough to wake one from his deep sleep. Awaking yet dosing off again, another followed. And, another."

"Once I got outside, however, there was nothing. Though, the ticks were sounding all around us. As if little rocks were thrown at the trailers that were stationed in rows of two, as far as the eye could see. 'It must be the rain,' said of one the riders," his voice continued to deliver mental imagines into the mind of his listeners.

"I cursed, still numb from brisk awakening and confused by the lack of rain, I returned to my dreamland. Once asleep and once more, but it was back. Tskk, tskk, it went and kept going on and on and on. Not an eye was shut that night and every time I checked outside, there was nothing but silence and shadows."

"Anger arose. My heart was thirsting for vengeance. I sneaked out like a born ranger, silent and stealth I was. I saw shadows lurking in the trees. They were all around us! Ten or twenty but no less! In the trees and all around. Hammering their objects at us! Arrow on my bow, I pulled my string. And behold, the demons that haunted us while we slept that night, the shrieks that tormented everyone with fear! With no mercy, no fatigue and least of all—"

**_Whack!_**

A small stone impinged on his helmet and interrupted him.

All the children turned around to see where the attack could have come from.

"Éothain, your break finished five minutes ago."

"Yes, Sire," rubbing the dent on his burnished helmet, the young Marshal obeyed to the order and left his audience, hanging them at the cliff of curiosity.

"My King, you should not be so hard on that young man," said his old advisor, his voice snickering.

"He is not slapped enough as a child," sighed, Éomer shook his head.

All the children then came around, surrounding him, with their blue eyes begging for him to conclude the unfinished story. Most of them were no taller than the Halfing Merry.

"So, what was it?" Asked a boy clinging his little hands on his mail skirt.

"What was what?" He asked back, looked down at the small figure, frowning, confused by the question.

"The creature that Marshal Éothain was telling in his story."

"Oh, that! Let me tell you, my child. It was a….." Gamling stepped in and scoped all the children aside towards their shelter. The children face shone with amazement as the old solder continued the tale of the unfinished adventure. Éomer grinned at the clever move of the older man. He had done so to leave his King some peace.

After the funeral of Théoden, Éomer finally came around to the most important and first task of his reign – rebuilding Rohan. Many fields were burnt and livestock were destroyed by the persistent attacks from the Orcs and Dunlendings during the War of the Ring. Rohan was nothing a scarred land with not crops to feed its people. He had nothing to reward his vassals and reimburse the families of the fallen riders. The aid of Gondor was welcomed but he wished not and did not like to rely on it. It was not his nature. Rohirrim had always been self-sufficient and he intended to restore that way of living as soon as possible.

The supply Rohan received would be sufficient to last until next spring. But he had ordered his people to start sowing the seeds for next crop, grinding any grains they could save and weaving the wool of the remaining sheep. The healing was slow but progressing. Crops and grains were just tangible help he could offer. There were some wounds that would never completely heal. Many families now had to struggle and continue their life without the men. Women lost their brothers, fathers, husbands and sons. Many children were made orphans.

After urging the children back into their shelter, Gamling peered into the horizon. From time to time, he would find his young king, gaping absently across the plains of the Mark, dwelling himself in a long reverie. It was early winter. The cold snap had showed mercy on them and there was no trace of wintry blizzard which made its visit every year, as far as Gamling could remember. Everything was getting better even under the increasingly cold weather. But the first few months were tricky. There was no end to discussion at the council every morning. The list of rebuilding tasks only grew longer and longer. And the constant argument between Éomer and their Gondorian diplomat only caused headaches to those at the council table.

"_No! You cannot do this. You must see to the children first!" She insisted at one occasion._

"_My decision is final," Éomer did not back down either._

"_These children are robbed of their parents! Nobody is willing or able to take them."_

"_So are the soldiers who can no longer ride, so are the farmers who can no longer harvest their crops and thousands of mouths that need feeding! The children will be fine where they are," he shot back at her earnestly._

"_If you do not wish to see to it now, I will, with or without your approval."_

That ended the council that morning, leaving Éomer in a rather foul mood. He was not cruel but sometimes there were other priority that came first and others had to be set aside. Not a decision that would please everyone. Lothíriel was not the most amiable person Gamling came across. She was stubborn and would go against Éomer openly. Having said that when she took matters into her own hands, she always had a way to resolve them better than he initially anticipated. One such instance was the construction of an orphanage in at The Terraces, next far from the east watch-tower. Many planks of lumber were shipped from Dol Amroth and she oversaw the construction since the first day when the earth was dug. It was completed by the end of autumn and was enough to house all the parentless children they found within surrounding settlements. And it was built to Rohirric quality. Part of him actually held some admiration for this woman. Her strong will drove his king mad but nonetheless she was a keeper of words. High echelon like her bore no lavish welfare of a princess, given that she was Imrahil's daughter and by birth right, she was a princess.

When they first arrived at Edoras, she had demanded not to be lodged at any fancy quarters. Well, even if she had not made the request, there was no spare accommodation. Most well-kept quarters were offered to the party of King Elessar and the company of the fellowship. And, many came from all over Rohan to pay their respect to their fallen king and swore their loyalty to the new. The city was saturated and all rooms were cramped to fit as many as possible.

"_My lady, I am truly sorry that this is the best I could offer," Gamling said in an apologetic tone as he led Lothíriel and her two companions to a Rohirrim cottage._

"_Thank you, Lord Gamlin. This will suffice. Having a roof is better than none," she smiled, looking around the wooden cottage._

It was not an impressive cottage. There were two sleeping chambers at the back. The fire pit sat in the middle, a signature of all Rohirric buildings. Next to the fire pit, there was a stoned stove with a small food safe. The stable laid next to the front entrance. Opposite it, there were wooden table and benches for dining. It was simple with all the necessity. But that did not make everyone happy. Her maid, Moriel was fastidious with the dwelling that she had to live up for the unknown months they stayed in Edoras. She was fussy with small details. There was no wardrobe for the start. And the stable was too close to the bedchambers. The front porch was nothing more than a thatched roof. On top of that, she found the cottage too small for three people and she found it incredibly inconvenient to have to share it with a young boy. Gamling believed that it was one of the many side reasons why Lothíriel had pushed the completion of the orphanage, so that Hannor could stay with the rest of the children that shared the same fate.

"Good morning, Lord Gamling," greeted the dark-haired woman as she vaulted off her horse.

"Good morning, my lady," he smiled. "Good ride?"

"Yes, as Rohirric saying puts it: _**horses lend us the wings we lack**_. The best place to ride freely on the Middle-earth, I must say, has to be the plains of Rohan. Absolutely exhilarating! I don't think I will ever get tired of it!" She answered breathlessly, patting her majestic grey mare fondly on her neck then before passing the reins to the stable-master. Lothíriel climbed up the hewn-stoned path, weaving her way up to the old soldier.

Gamling continued to grin at the young woman. "I am glad to learn that you are blending well into our lifestyle."

"I am ashamed to admit that horses are the animals that are yet to suffer an early demise in my hands!" She laughed. A few loose strands of her braided raven dark hair flew in the air like outstretched wings.

Gamling chuckled.

"It will be Yule soon."

"Yes, time passes rather quickly this few months."

"Let us hope, this winter will be kind to us."

There was a hint of grimace in Gamling's voice.

"Do you celebrate Yule in Rohan?" she asked, trying to change to a lighter topic.

"We do. It might be different from the Yule you are accustomed to in Dol Amroth though. How do you celebrate Yule Festival in Dol Amroth?"

She began explaining with animated enthusiasm.

"We have firecrackers. There will be a feast at the city square that lasts for five days. Fishermen will bring back huge crabs and salmons from the sea. There will be an open fire pit and anyone could bring his provision and share with others. My father would open the gates and welcome any visitors to the City. The children will be showered with gifts. All families gather together and share stories and jokes at the dining table….."

Her voice died down. She lowered her eyes slowly, fluttering her lashed. Her expression sunk with evident trace of sadness. She was missing her family and home. A home she could not return to.

"My lady," seeing the sadness in her eyes, Gamling turned to her and put his hand on her shoulder, in a convincing tone, he said, "I will make sure you feel at home this Yule. This is your first Yule in Edoras. I will see to it myself that you will enjoy it."

He somehow felt for this young woman. It was unimaginable to him to be away from his land for so long, to be in a foreign land, to be among people whose culture that he knew little about.

"Lord Gamling, if you would excuse me please," seeing Hannor waving at her, she bowed and dashed to the orphanage.

He watched her as she sprinted down the pavement. His scepticism towards her eased over the course of the months. The young woman had proven her quality. He was impressed. He only wished she could get along better with his King.

"Gamling!"

"My lord."

From the look of it, Éomer had finished the daily practice with his royal cavalry.

Brushing off the thin layer of sweat from his forehead, Éomer saw some men, women and children dropping whatever that was in their hands; nimble and quick, bounded across the green to the direction of the orphanage. He arched his straight eyebrow, throwing his old friend a querying cast.

"Lady Lothíriel has decided to start some teaching lessons. Today is the first lecture. Our people seem to be quite keen about it."

His eyebrows furrowed, Éomer murmured, "Teaching lesson, what is she thinking?"

The Rohirrim had always maintained the culture of their ancestors. They sang songs but were not particularly interested in writing or reading. And, now this woman wanted to introduce lesson?

Gamling observed his King. He could tell that he was not very impressed by that. His heavy-booted feet stamped on the paved hewn stones in annoyance.

"King Éomer, where are you going?" Gamling shouted.

Éomer lifted his head and viewed him with a raised brow. Gamling could not tell if his young king was smiling.

"First lesson, Gamling?"

* * *

><p>It was almost ten o'clock in the morning. Lothíriel was busy preparing the materials for her first ever teaching session. She hoped it would go well. She was nervous. Her palms were sweaty. She kept checking her stationery again and again. A large piece of parchment was stretched and pinned on the wall.<p>

Hannor opened the door and they were stunned to see the crowd that gushed in.

The longue was spacious and lined with tables and benches. The children were already sitting. As soon as the door opened, there were peasants consisting of farriers, farmers, smiths, woodworkers, foresters, tailors and so forth that quickly filled up half of the room. Some of them were still wearing their work aprons, some had tools in their hands, some carried their farm baskets with them. Lothíriel also found among the present were riders, some royal knights, bold young squires and grizzled old men-at-arms, with spears and swords and axes hanging on their belts, and clad in their armour. The rather spacious room looked small and narrow with men and women standing along the wall.

Eyes closed, drawing a deep, long breath, she turned to the attendees.

"Wesaþ hāl!" She greeted them in their tongue. She had picked up a few lines in Rohirric and was still learning it. She was not as good as Hannor.

"Wesaþ hāla!" They replied in unison.

"Welcome to our first lesson. Today we begin with the history of Middle-earth. We will look at the creation of the Timless Halls and the race of Ainur," she switched to Westron and began the tales of Middle-earth.

Her students of young and men were astonished as she continued to enlighten them. Her voice rang loud and clear through the corridor. For a moment her confidence was raised to its peak, then when the tens of pairs of eyes shifted from her to the door, she realised something was not right. They all stood up and were about bowed, "Hail Éomer King!"

From the corner of her eyes, she detected some tall and huge object blocking the door. That was right. Éomer had been standing at the door, observing her teaching. It only required one pair of less attentive eyes that wandered from the front then everyone noticed their king was here. Who could possibly not see such someone with such a noticeable presence? She cursed under her breath, thinking that she was naïve enough to assume he won't pay a slight interest at all in all her show and play – which otherwise would suit her well. Her hand clutched tightly to her chalk. The words of her brother came back haunting her.

"_Do not fall for him, Lothíriel," Erchirion warned._

"_What are you saying, Brother," she moved to the edge of the patio, trying to shadow her face in the dark._

"_Éomer is a dangerous man. He is not someone you can handle."_

_Unlike Elphir who was very protective of her, Erchirion always left her to decide for herself and he was always able to predict her reactions and thoughts. It was difficult to conceal anything from him._

"_If you hold any feeling for him, kill it now. It will only be vain," he urged._

_She remained silent. Her mind was racing. Her fomenting affection for him did not escape her brother's eyes. Had he seen the emotions that leaked from her eyes? Or was it her deliberate behaviour that burst her cover. The more she tried to conceal it, the more she felt she had failed.  
><em>

"_Do you not understand? He will not be your husband. He will not love you," her brother grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her._

_His sister blinked a few times at him. It was cruel words that he said. She thought deeply, and she turned her eyes wistfully to the great doors of Meduseld behind which the Lord of the Mark sat._

"_He agreed to Father's request with one condition," her brother continued, his eyes closed, could not bring himself to spat out the harsh truth, "that you will never be the Queen of Rohan!"_

_His words paralysed her brain and heart. She dazed trying to rewind his words in her mind. She sat herself down at the stoned steps and gazed blankly into the fire of the torch. Her heart sunk and died out like the flickering flame lost its ember in the strong wind._

_Gathering her wits, she decided she should listen to her brother; that she should seal and bury the feeling she had developed for the Horselord, that she should invest her passion somewhere else. As her lone journey in Edoras began, it was never an easy task to face him every morning at the council. She could have chosen not to attend it, but she somehow felt that she owed the people of this land. Gondor would not have survived without the Rohirrim. It was a solid fact that nobody could deny. Trying hard to pretend and lie to herself that she held no more than silly infatuation, she turned an blind eye to her thoughts. It was easier said than done. Building a wall around one's heart is as if you stab your heart with a butcher knife and tell yourself that it is fine whilst it continues to bleed._

"Lady Lothíriel?"

"Oh sorry, Hannor." Waking up from her momentary reverie, she quickly regained her composure and resumed where she left.

Two hours anon, the first lesson completed without no more surprises. Her students seemed pleased and enthusiastic about it. She was thrilled. Some were enquiring Lothíriel about the next lesson. Others were suggesting allowing their children to come along.

Éomer could not say if he was too impressed, at least he was not disappointed and was glad to see that some good use came out from their Gondorian diplomat. More importantly, the children were over the moon with the stories. Despite her limited verbal skill conversing in their language, the lesson was delivered with remarkable creativity and surreal images. Hannor had helped with many translations. The orphan boy was very proficient in both Westron and Rohirric, he learnt to speak their tongue easily as soon as he settled in.

"Éomer King?"

"Yes, Gamling?"

"May I suggest that we get ready for lunch now?"

"Of course!"

They headed to the entrance and Éomer stopped abruptly, remembering something. His old friend nearly crashed into him. He turned around to his adviser.

"Gamling?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Get more tables and benches made. Nobody should be standing in a class."

"I will see to it."

A warm smile appeared on old Gamling's face. His King always had a kind heart beneath his rough hardened look - the attribute that most people often overlooked when they judged him.

* * *

><p>The children were scampering around the front yard when Gamling and Éomer came out from the orphanage. Éomer squinted. There were some men and women busy dressing tables. Puzzled, Éomer turned to Gamling but his old friend just shrugged.<p>

"Lord Éomer!"

A shout came from the direction of Meduseld. Waving at him, Mægen, the old kitchen maid of his household, hastened down the hewn stones. Mægen had always been the kitchen maid as long as Éomer could remember. She knew his uncle very well. She always remembered Théoden and Théodred's favourite dishes. Age caught up with her. Grey strands and line were dominating her appearance. She appeared shorter day by day.

"Mægen, what is the hurry?"

"My lord, I am sorry. I have forgotten to tell you that lunch is served outside today. We will dine with the children."

"How is that so?"

Éomer cast the old woman a questioning look.

"Lady Lothíriel has prepared all the food," Mægen was delighted that things were a little different today that instead of her preparing the meals, she would love to be pampered and just sit down and enjoy somebody's else cooking.

Other than children, there were many that came. Éomer glared across the porch. There were farmers bringing out wines and ales, knights helping with chairs and spreading the rugs, women distributing fruits and nuts to each table.

Gamling walked under the sun and let the beam warmed his wrinkled face.

"It is a good day, my lord. Shall we?" Extending his hand, he motioned for Éomer to join the busy bunch.

Éomer smiled faintly at his gesture. They strolled down to the Terrace where the tables and chairs laid.

"Éomer King?"

A small voice spoke up. Éomer looked down and recognised the small face. His father, Déorwine, a knight of Théoden, fell at Mundburg, one of the many who paved the battle with their deaths. He smiled, leaning over.

"Yes, Déornyd?"

"Would you like to join us?" the boy asked, pointing at the dressed table not far.

"Yes. Lord Gamling and I would be delighted."

The boy beamed instantly at his answer.

"Come with me! I will show you where your seats are!"

Pulling the hand of his King, Déornyd led the two grown men to a table, just next to where a few big cast iron pots of stew were sitting.

Her steps halted when Lothíriel saw Éomer. She had gone to the kitchen to fetch a few ladles and despite knowing he might make a presence here, she did not expect to see him so soon. And so close to her stews. She chewed her lower lip.

"You should not get too close to the stews, my lord. You might get burnt."

An unnecessary warning. Not that she expected him to get burnt, she just did not want to be in close proximity within his presence.

She shovelled a ladle each into the pots. Looking down at the stew, she stirred it vigorously.

If there is no chance that the other person will ever return your feeling romantically, it may be best to suppress knew deep within, yet these feelings were pure misery. She must make them disappear from her conscious awareness. She must consciously push away any thoughts of this man that came to her mind. Her will needed to stay strong. Some tools of distraction would definitely facilitate that – such as stirring the stew, very very vigorously.

"Don't speak so freely, my lady. I have survived Orcs and Uruk-hais. Your stew could be no more vicious than them. Unless there are some ingredients that man knows not."

She threw him a leer. And he returned it with a hard stare.

"I should have last time," she murmured.

The awkward silence that had varnished for a few weeks finally made surfaced again. It was thanked to Mægen's timely interference that broke it.

Standing next to Lothíriel, Mægen struggled to keep her balance. She staggered whilst trying to find her footing on the bench.

"Mægen! What are you doing? The stew could fall on you!"

Lothíriel grabbed the old woman by her arm before she fell over.

"My lady, I am trying to reach the ladle. It looks like the table is too high for me," she pointed with a dripping ladle at the stew in front of her.

"Mægen! Don't hurt yourself at the very end. You are about to retire for Béma's sake!" Éomer walked past Lothíriel. He lifted the old woman and set seated her on another bench.

"Let me help you with this," he removed the ladle from Mægen's hand and stood next to Lothíriel. He started to unbuckle his vambraces and then peeled off his leather gloves. With a ladle in his bare hand, he swirled the content of the pot in front of him.

She turned her head away and cursed. _Damn! Why did he have to stand so close?_ She could feel the heat radiating from his body. His scent seeped into her nose. Her heart was thumping loudly. And her thoughts were tumbling. Focus! Focus! She must focus.

"Hmmm, this smells incredibly familiar. Stew of the Kings?" He lifted a ladleful to his nose and asked, tilting his head to beckon at her.

"Glad to know that you still remember," she replied not exactly answering his question.

"I survived." Came the measured answer.

She continued to ignore him. She needed a diversion and then her eyes lit up with mischief. With a loud clank, she banged the ladle against the metallic pot and in a loud and clear voice, she shouted, "Children, I hope you all will feel so honoured today that _your_ King will be serving your lunch!"

That drew all the immediate attention, especially the children of course. They gathered quickly around him with bowls and spoons in their hands, all appearing very eager as if the stew would taste different if it came from his hands.

He frowned and glowered at her with sullen displeasure. He was certain that she did it deliberately to annoy him.

"Fine." A silent sigh.

"Form up! Line up!" He urged the small figures. Instantly the children formed a queue.

"Typical."

A low murmur but he heard her. He shook his head but said no more.

"Thank you, Éomer King!"

"Enjoy! And watch your step, little one!" Éomer reached out his hand to steady a child.

"Will do, my lord!" beamed the chubby face, dancing away with the stew in her hands.

Every child that had his or her bowl filled was absolutely overjoyed. They knew Éomer as a king and have heard stories about his deeds but they never actually had him so close. It was a new experience. They felt it was a special. They felt love and compassion when their King talked to them. They did not feel unwanted anymore.

Then a familiar figure came into sight. Éomer traced the blackened leather gloves, the maroon tunic, the burnished vambrace with black horse leather imprint and his eyes rose quickly to find a man with a ear-to-ear grin standing in front of him. Éothain widened his grin and extended his hand with a bowl. He was asking his King to serve him.

Éomer narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the young rider. He was fine with children but felt rather offended with that smile beaming from his bodyguard.

"Éothain! Over here!"

Lothíriel thought she saw the anger flashed briefly in Éomer's eyes. She pulled the young rider's extending arm and dragged him forward.

"It is not funny to do that to your King!" she hissed at him as she filled his bowl.

"But he is already serving the children!" he defended.

"Children are children. And you are no child! He is your King! Show some respect! Don't ever again take the gimmick on your King!" she reminded.

"Yeah! Yeah!" he responded perfunctorily.

"Now go before he scorches you down to your very last bone with his blazing glare!" she urged, pushing him forward.

The rest of the Royal Guards picked up the lesson quick and reformed their queue in front of their Gondorian diplomat.

"My lord." Gamling chuckled.

"I told you he is not slapped enough as a child."

"He is young."

"He needs to learn," Éomer said without giving much thought. "And, Gamling, allow me."

Éomer extended a filled bowl to his adviser.

The courtesy that Éomer showed astonished the old rider.

"My lord, I can't."

"Gamling, it is an honour to have you by my side. Please take it, my friend."

"The honour is mine, my King," still stunned, he reluctantly accepted the bowl and gave his king a bow. It was something he had not expected. Many riders now looked at him with the highest regards and admiration in their eyes. Emotions gushed into his chest. He felt a little moisture sneaking into his eyes. The feeling of appreciation was beyond words. It was not title or wealth that he seeked when he chose to continue serving his young King. Éomer was not a person generous of compliment but his action just now spoke the highest regard that he held for his old friend.

Gamling did not know how he found a seat. Looking up from the table, he thought he saw the most amazing picture of the day – his King was finally happy and contented with his role and responsibility, and beside him the woman, who somehow drove him mad in every possible way, always uncovered the unseen side of his King. That brought another smile to the old rider's face.

"You should eat before it is all gone," she spoke whilst emptying the last drop of the stew out of pot.

"I thought we had enough?"

"Not if there are more greedy souls coming for their refill," swapping the empty pot with another full one, she filled a large bowl and passed it to Éomer. "Eat and say no more."

He stared down at the bowl. Lothíriel became annoyed. That same face again!

"Stew of the Kings, improved and braised with the very special royal taters of Rohan, my lord," she removed the pot from the table and sat down with a filled bowl for herself.

"It is not poison if you fail to remember," she reminded without looking at him.

He finally sat down. Unconsciously she shifted her body a little away from him. He noticed and tended her unease but she only kept her attention to her bowl. A deliberate act of distancing herself.

There was a long pause.

"Mægen is going to retire before Yule," he suddenly said, breaking the silence.

"So I heard. She wants to take care of her grandchildren."

"For as long as I can remember, she has always been our cook in Meduseld."

She could not help but detect the sadness in his voice.

"There are things and people that you cannot hold on to forever. You have to let go at some point," she inserted, sipping her tea. _You have to let go at some point_ - was it meant for her or him, she could no longer tell.

"So we need someone to replace her," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"And?" she asked without giving any attention.

"I thought you would be the ideal candidate."

"I beg your pardon?" Fighting back the sudden choke, she tried to find her voice. "What do you mean?"

"I am offering you a position in my household."

"Are you actually asking your diplomat to be your _cook_? This is unheard of!" She rolled her eyes, disbelieved at his words.

Noting that she did not take his offer seriously, he tried another way.

"Unless you are not interested," he said casually, pouring himself some wine.

When Mægen announced that she was going to retire, many came up suggesting the Lady of Gondor would be the best option. Many knew about her obsession with culinary and food. She had prepared the meals for the orphans and occasionally his riders would sneak in and treat themselves with some. She learnt the Rohirric cuisine quick and often the followed results were surprising. His men had praised her dishes more than once in front of him. Mægen often spoke of her talent that even the pickiest man in Rohan would have not said no to her food. Éomer was not meticulous about what he ate but he believed keeping a man's stomach well fed would get any job done better and faster – something he learnt from observing a life example: Éothain.

"I am certain your most loyal admirer over there would be delighted," he continued and pointed at the direction of Éothain.

"He is not my admirer!" She hastened to correct.

"He is a good friend," then she inserted in a milder, slower tone, feeling a little overreacted earlier.

"The task will be no more difficult or easier than what you are doing now. You can still take care of the children. They are welcome to dine in Meduseld."

Her father once told her that dining with the soldiers was the best way to get to know and understand them. She had seen Éomer at the table with most of his advisers, Marshals and knights. The éoreds would join them too if they were not on patrol. Sometimes he would ask some dwellers in Edoras to dine with him. One night it would the smithies and they would talk about armours and weapons and ore-mining. The next time it would be the provisioners and suppliers and he would listen to them go on about the supply of grains, crops, wools and hays. Another time it might be the woodworkers and carpenters and builders with endless talk about lumbers and thatching. He knew his people and he knew them well. That was the way how King and his people should be.

"So, do you think you are capable enough? To run the royal kitchen," he pushed his effort.

His challenging tone set all her rationale aside. Enraged, she agreed without fully comprehending the possible after effects of her decision. "When do I start?"

Right after the words left her mouth, she regretted it. All her sanity and rationale came back mocking her why she had accepted his offer. What was wrong with her? Was the daily debate at the morning council not troubling enough? Why did she have to dig herself another grave? She was so stupid, totally out of her mind, she admitted silently, biting her lower lip.

"Mægen will go through the routine with you tomorrow," he stood up, sliding his hands into the leather gloves and buckling his vambraces.

"We will be training some yearlings this afternoon, if the children wish to come," his voice trailed off as he made his way up the slope to the horse enclosure of the city.

The afternoon went quickly. She only remembered taking the children to the small field. Éomer was already there with his Royal Guards and a few breeders. The children began all sort of fun with drawing and painting. Some of the younger ones who had not prior experience to be on a horse back were given the chance. The laughter echoing in the field caught attention of many.

"Ha! Well done! There you go, boy!" Éomer laughed, clapping his hands to encourage a chestnut yearling after it managed to learn a new trick.

She looked up and saw the first smile he ever flashed since she met him. His whole face lit up and the dimples were deep and craved onto his cheeks. It was warm and almost contagious not to laugh along. She could not help herself but felt her lips curled up slowly.

The children flattered the men in the field with loud cheers.

Wiping the sweat off his brows and catching his breaths, his eyes turned to the children only to glimpse at her smiling.

At him.

**TBC**

**Chapter 16: The change in Lothiriel's life after she begins her life as the cook for his household. Éomer's decision that almost ruins their 'friendship' (or whatever you like to call it!) and Lothiriel nearly betrays her will.****************************************  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Footnotes<em>**

_**Mægen**_ = strong (Old English)

_**Moriel**_ = Lady Crowned with Black (Sindarin, feminine). She is Lothíriel's maid whom she grows up with. Her role is important as the next twist comes.

**_Wesaþ hāl_** = Greeting (Old English, plural)

**_Wesaþ hāla_** = Greeting to a female (Old English, singular)

_**Déorwine**_ = A Royal Knight of Théoden. He was killed in the Battle of Pelennor Field.

**_Déornyd_** = son of Déorwine, now an orphan

**_Déor_** means bold, _**wine**_ means friend, **_nyd_** is just another suffice for male name with no particular meaning.

**_Vambraces_** = (_noun_, of armour) Forearm guard

**_Yearling_** = (_noun_)young horse

_**Chestnut**_ = (_adjective_)brown colour, often used to describe animals

Note1: The layout of Edoras is based on Decipher map designed by Daniel Reeve (who is also the map artist for Jackson's Trilogy)

Note2: The thing in Éothain's story is actually a squirrel.


	16. of Foreseen and Unforeseen

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

_**Chapter 16: of Foreseen and Unforeseen  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>Edoras<p>

Beginning of Winter, 3019 T.A.

The night air was chilling. The still silence was broken by an occasional song of a bird. The stars blinked in the dark sky. Gamling stood leaning against the carved wooden beam outside Meduseld. His breaths blended into a mist of silver as he exhaled slowly. He was summoned to Éomer's study shortly after dinner.

"Gamling."

"What do you need of me?"

Éomer was standing in front of the bookshelf. His fingers slid along the few dusty books that laid idle. He turned to glance at the older man.

"Now it is the time to settle some unfinished business."

"My lord?"

"Snowbourn."

He knew Éomer would not have overlooked it. It came earlier than he thought.

Éomer decided to ride out in two days with his éored. Gamling suggested sending a detachment but he refused. He wanted to question them personally why they had not come to Dunharrow, why they failed to answer to their King's call and why they betrayed their oaths.

Gamling took another sip from his tankard. His eyes are thoughtful.

A strong gust of cutting wind howled in the dark, foreshadowing conflict to come.

* * *

><p>Two days later.<p>

"Lothí…..riel…" The undistinct voice called her again.

She looked around, searching for the source but it was dark and she could not even see her own fingers. The air was cold and dense and made her hackles stand.

"Who are you?" She continued to search aimlessly in the darkness.

"Sh…." It died off and came back. "You will see."

Her steps halted as she felt her feet hit something. It made a clank. She leaned down to pick it up. In her hands, she saw a sword broken in half. She loosened her finger a little and saw the hilt. Then she heard the unmistaken sound of liquid dripping.

_Tsk. Tsk. Tsk._ It went. And it became more frequent and louder.

She looked around again. She was alone. A sudden chill ran down her spine.

It was the smell that caught her. And her hands were wet. She lifted her hand with the sword in it - a flow of scarlet summer wine trailing down the blade to the hilt. It kept dripping from the pommel.

_Tsk. Tsk. Tsk._ The eyes were bleeding. Shaken, she dropped the broken blade.

It made a loud and clear clank as it hit the ground.

It smelled iron.

It was blood.

Lothíriel bolted upright in her bed, her eyes filled with terror. She had not had any nightmare since she came to Edoras. She touched her face and checked her hands to be assured it was only a dream. She had broken out in a cold sweat and was now shaking in fear. Her chest rose violently whilst she tried to catch her breaths.

She blinked a few times and just sat in her bed, trying to stitch the eerie images together.

She remembered the hilt clearly. It was a special make. One that nobody would forget.

Red leather bound with two horseheads coiling around it.

Gúthwinë.

* * *

><p>She stayed awake until daybreak. She could not go back to bed after her nightmare.<p>

As she opened the front door of her cottage, she was greeted with blinding and shimmering silvery ground. The snow came. The sparkling flakes danced around her. It was her first snowy winter. This explained the sharp plunge in temperature last night. It never snowed in Dol Amroth no matter how cold it was.

Pulling her wool robe tighter, she swirled down in great flurries over the snow-coated city. The glittering dust crunched under her boots. It was a beautiful scene. The flakes were falling silently all night long on the mountains and on the roofs of the living. As she drew closer to the orphanage, she heard cheerful laughter and shouts. The children were already outside, enjoying the merry of the snow.

She turned to glance across the city. Time seemed to have stopped.

Though beautiful the snow was cold and sharp as it bit at her fingers and the wind kissed her cheeks. She hastened to the children to be certain that they were wrapped up warm and tight for the cold. Whilst she checked the children, the city woke up with loud neighs. The doors of the stable were open. Horses breathed and snorted noisily. She thought many rides were up early. Those were Éomer's éored. She recognised their armour. They muttered among themselves. She could not catch or comprehend completely what they were saying. But every now and then Snowbourn was mentioned.

"Hannor, keep this scarf tight," she tightened the lace around the young man's collar. She lowered herself and hissed to him. "What are they saying?"

"They? Oh, the riders. They are leaving for Snowbourn today, it seems."

"Today? Snowbourn?"

She dashed up the stoned steps. She knew Snowbourn, of course. Back in Minas Tirith, the old riders told her that none of the reinforcements from Snowbourn had shown up when Théoden mustered them. Knowing Éomer's character, her heart feared for what he had decided to do.

She swung the doors open and stamped across the main hall. All the riders turned to her. She caught Éothain with a few riders standing next to the fire pit.

"Where is your King?" she demanded, finding it hard to suppress her anger.

"He is in his bedchamber with …... They are…."

She did not wait for him to finish. Her steps hammered down the hall again.

Her feet came to a halt when she reached his room. He was talking to Gamling. Her heavy and loud footsteps caught their attention. They stopped their conversation and turned around to her. It was hard to tell who was more surprised. Éomer certainly did not expect to see her in the morning and in his bedchamber.

"Good morning, my Lords," she found it an effort to remember her courtesies.

"Good morning, my lady," Gamling returned with a smile.

Her jaws clamped tightly before she found her voice again.

"If you could spare a few minutes for me please, Lord Gamling, I would like very much to have a word with your king."

It was more a demand than a question. Gamling exchanged a look with Éomer. The young king nodded. "I will meet you at the front porch."

The old rider gave both a polite nod and left.

"It is unusual to see you here," he said casually. One of his feet was up on a chair; he leaned forward to tighten the buckles of the greave around his lower leg. He had known her deliberate intention to stay away from his bedchamber.

"Why did you not tell me you were going to Snowbourn?" She took a step forward, almost barked at him.

"It was not necessary."

He replied with a tone of disinterest and continued to fasten another greave.

"Why do you need to go to Snowbourne? A detachment would have been sufficient!"

"That is not for you to judge."

"I am part of your council. This matter should have been discussed and agreed beforehand. You…"

"If you wish me to remind you – this matter is strictly and solely an affair of Rohan," he interrupted her harshly. "And, it is not within your jurisdiction to interfere."

"But, there is no need for you to go to Snowbourne. You could've…."

She did not finish.

"Lothíriel! They failed to answer to the muster by their King. They failed to fulfil their oaths to their land. And, now they will answer personally to me why they had not come when Rohan was in need at the most difficult times!"

He returned to his splenetic nature. His outburst startled her.

"But your place is with Edoras.."

He cut her off again before she could finish. "I am the King. I know my place damn well. It is time you learn _yours_."

His voice was curt and hard. He squeezed his eyes and gave her a hard stare.

She heard the sound of his receding footsteps.

She chewed her lip and said nothing. _It is time you learn yours - _his words were cruel. She hated them. She was hurt. All her concern meant nothing but a child's tyranny to him. Why had she come only to bruise her pride? Why should she even care? It was a constant battle between them both.

She closed her eyes to draw a deep breath. The blood-dripping hilt flashed before her again. She opened her eyes and it was gone. She stormed out of his chamber and headed to the main hall. He was not there.

"My lady, are you feeling fine? You look pale," someone asked.

She turned around to find Éothain with a worried look. He did not seem to have been offended by her rude behaviour earlier.

"Éothain," she grabbed both his forearms hard, pulling him closer, "watch your King. Do not let anyone or anything near him! Do not leave him at all cost! Do you hear me?"

"I will, of course! I am his bodyguard! For Béma's sake, what has gotten into you?" He tried to calm her down.

"There are enemies who mean Éomer ill. Promise me you will watch him! Promise me!"

Her grips on his hands tightened. She could hardly control her whimpering voice.

"It is my job to protect my King," the young rider put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her. "I have to go, my lady."

The bated breaths of horses mingled and swirled with the cold air. The trampling hoofs made down the slope to the gate, leaving a trail of winding black line behind. She saw him leaving from the porch of Meduseld. He waved at his riders to proceed. He led the group and he did not look back.

* * *

><p>The following days felt like years. She now knew waiting was a form of pure torment. She could not concentrate in her classes. Her mind would wander and her thoughts would drift. The nightmare did not come back but she felt the unease lingering within her. Whenever she had some time, she would stand with the guards at the gate, hoping to see at least a messenger. But news did not come until a week before Yule. The King and his éored would return to Edoras in two days. It was late midnight when the company returned.<p>

She was tucking the children to bed when she heard the galloping of the horses. Quickly shortening her lullaby, she kissed the youngsters good night and made her way to Meduseld. There were no cheery chatters that usually filled the hall. All the soldiers looked worn and exhausted. Their face showed no joy but grimace.

"Gamling," she caught the old rider.

"My lady."

"How was Snowbourn?"

"It was very dreadful," Gamling shook his head.

"Where is Lord Éomer? Is he hurt?"

"He went straight to his bedchamber. I don't know, my lady. He has not spoken a word since we left Snowbourn. We rode fast and hard back to Edoras. He has not slept much either," he said with a tone of worry.

"What happened, Gamling?"

"A….a…. merciless butchery. I should have seen it coming," he turned his face away. His voice was soaked with emotions. He blamed himself for not foreseeing it before. It was now too late. "I've _failed_ him."

"Whatever happens, it is not your fault," she tried to offer some consolation.

"Lord Éomer..."

"Let me see him."

"I am not certain it would be a good moment, my lady," the old rider hesitated.

"I need to see him, Gamling." She insisted.

She knew she could never cross the boundary of her so-called diplomatic condition. Erchirion warned her before he left. She could not help it tonight. She had to see for herself that he was unhurt.

"My lord?" Eothain saw her coming in from the front doors but hesitated if he should alert his King.

Dropping his pauldrons on the table, he turned to his Marshal. "What is it, Éothain?"

"It is, errr…"

Pitching the bridge of his nose, his King raised his head and questioned him with a hint of impatience between his scowl. "Speak quickly!"

Then he saw her standing at the door.

"May I come in?" She asked. A relief showered her when she saw him.

He signalled rather unwillingly to acknowledge her admission. He turned away and continued to unfasten his sword belt. It was only when she came closer to him that she saw the inevitable fatigue showered over his face. Other than his usual unkempt appearance, he looked exhausted and worn from inside out. His hair was messy with tangled locks; his face still carried the soot and dirt from riding. The sweat and grease on his face shone under his tanned skin.

"What is it?" Her voice was soft.

He threw her a grave look but remained silent. Then he hissed in pain when trying to pull his sword belt over his head.

"You are hurt," she entered the room and went closer. Concern was written all over her face.

"I am fine," he declared coldly, resuming the task of removing his armour.

"We need to get you clean up," she came in front of him.

"Just leave me, woman!" He barked. His patience was hanging by a thread. He needed no more trouble than he already had.

She did not give it. She turned to his bodyguard at the door. "Can you get me a huge basin of warm water and some cotton towels please, Éothain?"

The young rider quickly proceeded to her needs.

Soon, Éothain came back with some hot water and towels. Taking them off her hands, she urged the young man to rest. "You should go and get some rest, Éothain. You look drained."

The man young did not know how to respond. He was indecisive if he should get some rest which he needed desperately, or he should stay with help as it deemed improper to leave a lady alone with a man. Sensing his uncertain thought, Lothíriel just stood up and pushed him out of the room, "Go and get some sleep. It is not time to think about modesty. I will take care of him. Go!" She closed the door.

She returned her gaze on the Horselord. He cursed lowly under his breaths.

"Just leave. You are not supposed to be here."

"I won't until I see your wound."

"Fine! Suit yourself," he sounded annoyed and angry. His armour clattered as he let it fall onto the floor. He flung his chainmail and then took off his tunic, ignoring her.

It was then she saw a darkened patch on his neck where his shoulder met. She felt an instant sting in her heart. The blood had soaked into his shirt and spread all over his shoulder. It was not a small scratch that would have caused that much bleeding.

He cursed again, removing his shirt only to tear the dried blood with it. A trail of crimson flowed down his back.

"Lord Éomer," she called him in a mild tone. "Let me dress your wound."

"I told you I am fine! Are you deaf?" This time he barked at her.

"What is with you?" she barked back. "I am trying to help!"

"I did not ask for your help! And we have gone through this once in Minas Tirith. I am sure you don't need reminder for that!"

"Your men are concerned about you, for Valar's sake! You should have seen Gamling's face! That poor old friend of yours should not have to worry about you!" She snapped. "He blamed himself for whatever that happened in Snowbourn! And now you are sulking like a child! Do you really think this will make Gamling feel better?"

That sent him silent. He settled himself in a chair and let out a loud disheartening sigh.

She had never seen him like this. So shattered as if his heart had been gnawed, leaving an empty void.

"I need to wash your wound and dress it at least to stop the bleeding. I don't have any salves. A healer will need to see to it tomorrow." Her tone was milder as her anger died down.

He looked away and did not reply. She regarded that he had agreed to it.

The deathly silence breathed around them as she ran the damp towel over his wound. It was an incision beneath his collar, just where his armour ended. It was swollen and clogged with soot.

"How did you get this?"

"Just a scratch of a spear," he answered. His attitude softened.

"Just a scratch? A few inches more, you will be memory!" She reminded him whilst dressing and tieing a bandage over him.

He snorted refusing to respond to her.

She let out a breath.

"I will need to clean you up a bit more."

She took in the sadness sinking in his eyes. She lifted her hand and cupped his face, then swiped the grim away with the damp towel in her hand. Her eyes followed the motion of her hand. The dirt was stubborn and the stench from his armour was pungent, meaning he had not washed for a few days. Still holding his chin in her other hand, her fingers rubbed away the filth on his forehead, his eyebrows, down his nose, around his eyes and his cheeks. Feeling the towel had gone cold, she stood up and rinsed the towel in the basin, squeezed off excessive water and resumed from where she stopped.

"What happened, Éomer?" She finally asked. It was the first time she addressed him without formality.

He grimaced at her question. After a long pause, he finally spoke,"we arrived and found Dunlending outlaws roaming everywhere. We managed to capture some of them but their leader escaped."

"But we saw no men, women or children in the settlement. All the livestock were gone. Then, we found a long abandoned pyre. Blackened logs scattered everywhere and ashes were thin, washed away by the rain. When we stepped closer, we saw what remained beneath the ashes - the burnt bones of men and women and children. Their hands and feet were bound," he continued bitterly.

"And..." He breathed deeply before continuing.

"They were...they were burnt…..alive," The last word came out longer than usual. Anger and despair flared in his voice.

Her body gasped suddenly for air. She could not imagine being there to see all the broken bodies. How hard it must be for him to see the slaughtered remains of his people. And there were children. She felt moist crept into her eyes. Her throat compressed with a sour taste in her mouth.

Trying control her emotion, she rose to rinse the towel again only to be abruptly stopped by his grip on her hand. She was not certain if it was out of her sympathy or other emotion that she instinctively brought herself closer to him and allowed his head to rest on her abdomen. Her fingers ran through his hair fondly, untangling the locks. His arms wrapped and coiled around her slender waist, embracing the comfort he seeked. He dug his face into the fabric of her dress, inhaling her scent, accepting the uninvited sympathy.

"While I sat on my throne questioning their loyalty, they were but already melted flesh! They have been dead all this while!" His voice pained her.

He was upset and angry. Remorse and guilt were inevitable.

"Their deaths are not of your doing. You could not have seen it." It was the best she could offer.

"Nobody came to them," he tightened his grip around her waist.

"It is not your fault."

They remained for a long time. Darkness breathed around them as if the unrest souls were crying for mercy, begging for life at the doorstep of death and asking why their king had not come to their aid.

"I should go. It is late."

"Stay. Just tonight."

She possessed a power to adapt herself to varied conditions of life, loved or not loved. And tonight it was put to an ultimate test.

**TBC**

**Chapter 17: The almost ultimate breakthrough with some exposed flesh...** (Coming soon!)

* * *

><p><em><strong>Footnote<strong>_

_**Greave**_: (_noun_)armour to protect lower leg.


	17. of Mōdraniht and Boars

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

_**Chapter 17: of Mōdraniht and Boars**_

* * *

><p><strong><em>To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.<em>**

**_~Federico García Lorca_**

* * *

><p>She stiffened slightly at his words. She was schooled and brought up with the understanding that a woman should never spend a night alone with a man even if it did not involve any act of promising courtship.<p>

She leaned down and brought herself to his level. Her hand clasped his and another laid gently on his chest. She could feel the steady beating of his heart beneath his muscled flesh. She spoke, "All the strengths you seek in life are deep inside your heart."

She made no intent to mask the compassion in her voice. Her heart ached for this man yet she could do no more.

"I can't," she replied softly to his earlier request.

He raised his head up to look at her. Their gazes met and locked.

His face was more mature, more shuttered than ever before. His dark eyes always seemed to hold all the mysteries. She had known every line, almost each texture. She would like to believe for that a moment she knew and understood everything about this man, yet there were always some air of enigma around him. She could not explain.

His dark eyes swept her out of reality on a tidal wave of emotion, like always. She felt she missed a beat in her heart.

His hand rose slowly close to her face. The residue of leathery odour lingered between his fingers. He slid his knuckles lightly on her face and brushed away the incipient moist that started forming at the corner of her eyes.

Her chaotic mind wailed upon his touch. She was not certain she had prepared herself for this. Prepare herself for a man who had drove her insane and had the ability to subside her rationale in every possible way. Months of warring tension spoke a fearful truth at this moment - she was helplessly attracted to him. Why had nothing changed? She had tried to withhold her feeling as best as she could, any reaction to him should have been mild. It should have been!

"Sshh…"

His voice was the gentlest ever rang in her ears. It held the seduction she did not know he possessed.

He held her chin up with his thumb and forefinger. She could smell him – his scent primal and raw, enveloping her. She saw him leaning forward slowly. Now she had not only lost her train of thought, but also all her coordination. She heard her own heartbeat and bated breathing in the eerie absence of sound. Instinct ruled over her and she closed her eyes and waited with beating heart for something to happen.

Seconds went passed like years.

She felt his breaths getting heavier on her face and she waited.

_**KNOCK!**_

A firm and loud tap on the door sent her startled. She opened her eyes instantly. As if awaking from a reverie, she came to immediate terms of their current situation. Being mortified by her earlier trivial impulses, she cast her eyes onto the floor away from the man in front of her. What was she thinking? This was madness. The palpable anticipation should not have any ground in reality. Certainly not now or in the future.

She heard him cursing lowly in Rohirric. She looked up and saw he turned his face away from her, rubbing his temple.

_Knock!_

Another tap on the door.

"My Lord?"

That voice was Gamling's.

Éomer slowly turned around and threw her a quick glance. The usual frown sat between his thick brows. She could not tell if he was apologetic or annoyed. She had feeling akin to regret. She should have left.

She stood up and went to the table where the basin and towels were sitting. She must not panic or go bolting for the door. This might look suspicious, meaning she might be guilty or ashamed whilst trying to hide some inappropriate doing. Pretending to be busied with the fabrics, she took the opportunity to regain her composure; she cleared her throat and said flatly, "I should go."

Without saying a word, he rose and headed to the door.

The door opened and Gamling's hand hanged in midair. Gamling appeared a bit surprised; perhaps he did not expect to see her still in his king's bedchamber after this hour. It was more than two hours since Éothain told him that she would be tending his King.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I did not know Lady Lothíriel was still tending you. I did not mean to interrupt."

"No need to be sorry, Lord Gamling," she held her head up and explained in a calm voice, "I am finished. Lord Éomer will need to see a proper healer tomorrow." She felt the words were being forced out of her mouth as she tried to hide her trembling interior. She could feel his hard stare on her. She did not want Éomer or Gamling to notice her embarrassment.

"I will see to it, my Lady."

"Good night," she bowed and took her left.

It was difficult to keep her feet at their normal pace when she exited his bedchamber. She wished to have varnished like thin air since the moment the knock came at the door. She dashed through the main hall as soon as she went past the fire pit. Their voices were fading behind her.

Her steps went hammering down the stoned steps. Her face was flushed with anger and shame. She was angry and also ashamed of herself. Of her stupidity. Of her action. And most of all, her inability to detach herself from him.

Burying her face in a pillow, she screamed her lungs out, hoping to release all the rage and erase the embarrassment. She must have been a lunatic to expect something might actually have happened just now and to have that feeling of disappointment when they were interrupted. She was a fool to keep blinding herself with some false hopes!

"I am _only_ a damn diplomat!" She reminded herself and kept repeating it until she fell asleep. It served a convincing lie to herself until a little surprise at Yule broke the spell.

* * *

><p>The next few days went smoother than she anticipated. Éomer appeared as his usual self and did not seem to be affected by their eventful exchange as if nothing had happened at all. He held on to his ungenerous verbal reputation and only bartered a few words with her at their usual business at the morning council.<p>

It was a day before Yule. Lothíriel noticed the city was waking up with some peculiar excitement. Children were scampering with loud giggles. Old folks were greeting her with warm grins and smiles. The workers at forges and foundries stopped at mid morning break and returned to their home to get changed.

Nobody had mentioned anything. She was at the kitchen of Meduseld and getting ready to prepare lunch. There were some unusual big wheels of cheeses on the tables. There was a wax seal on each of them – a horse pulling a cart with a milk barrel on it. She recognised it was the emblem of Farmer Barwick in Edoras. She poked one of them with her knife. The knife tip could barely pierce through the dusty-brown rind. It was very hard. She lifted one and sniffed it. Surprising it was not unpleasant at all but with an attractive nutty odour. Inspecting the circular disc in her hand, she found it incredibly heavy and soon she had to hold it with both hands. And, these wheels were much larger than the average. The diameter stretched more than the length of her forearm.

Curious and tempted to uncover the mysterious object, she lowered her knife slowly until it was nearly touching the wheel. Alas! She was interrupted abruptly when Éothain entered and screamed at her, "STOP! Don't touch the cheeses!"

She nearly jumped at his shout. Confused and upset by his impolite reaction, she barked at him, "What is that for? It is just cheese!"

"It is not just cheese," he threw her a sharp look, scooping up all the three large wheels into his arms.

"Oh, my poor cheeses!" he muttered at the dairy produce and caressed them fondly as if they had just been rescued from some form of misfortune.

He turned to look at the puzzled face and pointed at her, "They are not for the table! Well, at least not now!"

"Then why were they sitting in the kitchen? More precisely, next to my chopping board, begging for my attention! Isn't that a conflict of interest if I just stood there only to _admire_ them?" She raised her knife and pointed at the wheels in the young rider's arms. To say she wanted to admire them was understated, in fact she wanted to eat them!

"Did anyone not tell you, today is _**Mōdraniht**_!"

"With my rather limited linguistic knowledge, I know today is Mōdraniht, Éothain!" She crossed her arms.

"My Lady! You need to go out more! Leave this damn stove to someone else!" He rolled his eyes, expressing his disbelief. After instructing the other maids to take care of lunch, he dragged Lothíriel out of the kitchen.

"Where are we going with these big wheels?" She asked as they descended the stoned steps.

"You'll see!"

Most dwellers of Edoras were already gathering at the main entrance and cheered happily when they saw Éothain. Lothíriel saw Moriel and Hannor among the standing. Éowyn was talking to some of the Rohirrim. She had been away at Minas Tirith for more than a month and had just returned to Edoras a day before. Her wedding was due to happen next summer and she spent the last month overseeing the design of a ford in Emyn Arnen, where her home would be with Faramir.

Studying the excited faces, Lothíriel could not help but soon noticed that the people were not cheering at Éothain but at the cheeses in his arms.

"Éothain! Do you have the cheeses?" Someone asked, merging from the standing crowd.

"My Lord, I have them!" He grinned, lifting one of the wheels.

Gamling came to the pair and took the cheese from Éothain. They exchanged quickly in Rohirric and Lothíriel only managed to catch a word or two – _**ríce**_ and _**cēse**_, which did not help much in understanding Éothain's protective reaction over those cow produce.

Éothain returned to the standing pack and they all went out of the city.

Lothíriel somehow felt a bit confused by the whole situation and she could no longer withhold her curiosity, turning to the old rider next to her, she probed, "So did Éothain _father_ these cheeses?"

Gamling burst into laughter. "No, my lady. It would be extremely worrying if it had come to that!"

"He seemed to be overprotective of them while we were back in the kitchen!" She gestured towards Meduseld. "And he was also caressing creepily them as if they were his offspring," she explained and then added on second thought, "Or, I did not know he had a fantasy of…cheeses."

The old man continued to chuckle. "Fantasy or not we will see."

He then turned his eyes to the bottom of her robe.

"What, Gamling?"

"I hope you have some decent boots, my Lady."

Pulling her robe up, she extended one of her legs to reveal a brown leather boot. "These boots have been married to my feet since the day I left Minas Tirith, Gamling!"

"Very well, my Lady," Gamling smiled.

"Thank to the courtesy of someone that I should never have the chance to wear normal suede shoes again," she muttered dryly.

Seemingly to ignore her last statement, Gamling led her to the entrance. "Now, let me tell you the Rohirric celebration of Yuletide."

"We still retain the tradition of our forefathers before we came to the Mark," he continued as they made their way around the thorny fence circling Edoras, "every Yuletide, there is an event purely for amusement purpose, which you might find surprising, it is unrelated to horses."

"Amusement? And no horses?"

Lothíriel drew her eyes narrower and remained unconvinced by his words. Now these were two terms that should never go together as far as the Rohirrim were concerned. These people built and lived their life around horses and they actually had some time for other non-horse related interests? This was going to be an eye opener.

"Indeed, my Lady. This tradition came all the way from Brego, son of Éorl. At the completion of Meduseld, he felt there was a need to reward the hard work of his people, so he marked the day today four hundreds and seventy five years ago that Mōdraniht is the day where we could pamper ourselves with pure enjoyment. "

They continued their way until they reached the east side of Edoras. A little steep hill came into sight, just behind the walls of the horse closure. The snowfall a few days ago was still evident with some residues of white patches on the green rugged slope. A stair of wooden steps paved along the wooden fence of the city, to ease the climb onto the hill.

There were people everywhere especially crowded on the promontory and along the slope. They were all excitingly happy and cheering at Gamling when they approached. The wind blew from the south and it was very cold. She wrapped her arms around herself. She had left her cloak in Edoras when Éothain pulled her out of the kitchen.

She followed Gamling up the winding path. The weathered stones beneath her feet were rimed with frost. The wind swirled around her, blowing her hair into her face; white snow crunched beneath her boots, while ahead the dark ribbon followed the lines of the hills, rising higher and higher. It was unforgiving and not easy to walk up.

Her bare cheeks were ruddy with the biting cold, and her body complained more loudly with every step. It was freezing.

They stopped at mid hill. That was when Éothain reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them.

"My Lady, I must leave you now. I hope you will find your first Mōdraniht in Rohan pleasant, in the company of my Liege."

But she was not paying much attention to Gamling's word. She was busy catching her breaths and feeling warm from the sweat and cold again from the wind. Brushing off the sweat on her forehead wearily, she gestured for him to head off. Only when his figure became smaller, she suddenly understood what he had just said.

"Gamling!" She shouted.

"He is too far. He won't hear you," the Horselord said casually, standing behind her.

"I will go up there," she pulled up her robe, motioning to climb up. It was very difficult to meet him in the face after that night. It was embarrassingly awkward.

"If I won't do that if I were you. It only gets steeper and harder the higher you go. And besides, this is the best location to enjoy the whole sport in case you have not noticed."

"Best location?"

She turned around and looked back the way they came from. She was momentarily breathless and taken away by the scene in front of her eyes. For all those months she had spent in Rohan, she did not know its beauty could stretch beyond describable words. Under her feet, the rest of the world was a bleak emptiness of windswept plains and green fields spotted with snow. There was an endless spread of earthy prairie.

Another gust of wind went swirling from the south. Instinctively, she pulled her arms around herself tightly. She could feel her legs shaking beneath her robe.

"You are cold."

"I am not," she turned her face away, refusing to face him whilst rubbing her hands vigorously and blowing warm air into them.

She heard him letting out a sigh and then the cold breeze varnished and warmth enveloped her. She looked up and saw him wrapping his fur cloak around her.

"Keep it."

His words bore no affection or any sort. He had always behaved this way, never generous with words. She never understood his thoughts. But the tiniest kindness ever leaked from his act always managed to cause a ripple in her heart which she exhausted with every effort to keep still.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Clasping the cloak around her robe, she felt the sudden urge to cry. His scent was floating in the air and overwhelmed her. He always had such a strong and overpowering presence. It was hard to tear herself away from his duende.

"You should look up, otherwise you will miss it."

At his word, she directed her eyes to the top of the hill and saw Gamling and Éothain standing at the front edge.

"What are they doing? They are not going to roll down the slope, are they?"

"Brego started it with some cart wheels but it did not turn out too well as they all broke before they reached the bottom. So a farmer suggested some cheeses. Since then, it has become a tradition that we always hold this event on Mōdraniht with the same cheeses that were made more than ten generations ago by the same family," he replied not directly answering her question.

"There were some years that we had to give up this privilege," he added with a very quick flash of regret in his eyes.

Lothíriel knew he was referring to those years when Gríma was poisoning his uncle.

Gamling's loud voice rang in the air. All eyes turned to him. He stood high with a wheel of cheese in his hand.

Lothíriel managed to understand a little more since Gamling was fairly slow with his speech. He was telling the young ones of the story of Brego the same one he told her earlier. But he added this year was special because it was a new beginning that people of the Riddermark should no longer suffer from war. The crowd applauded loudly at his words.

He called forth Éothain and passed him the wheel. The young Marshal was getting in position.

"The previous winner will roll the cheese down. When it has travelled one twentieth of a league, then the race starts," Éomer continued to explain to her.

"Roll cheese and race?"

She was certain that she was hearing the echoes of her father telling her not to play with her food.

"Yes, and watch. First to catch it will be the winner," he pointed to the top of the hill again.

Her eyes studied the slope and the hill appeared steeper than she thought and there were holes and divots. The cheese fell in a rather slow motion and began bouncing down the slope. A whistle broke the breeze of the air. It looked and sounded very simple at the beginning – be the first to catch the cheese. But it all changed at the drop of a cheese wheel. Men, old and young, poured down from the top. Some ran and skipped trying to avoid the holes and stones. Some waddled down the course cautiously.

It rapidly plunged into complete chaos. There had to be at least a hundred bold men running after the mighty wheel. The ground was damp and muddy, slick footing, with rocks and hidden roots to trip the brave souls. There were bodies flying everywhere as the men threw in their caution to the winding, steep path and gave the hill everything they had to offer. Some were clumsy and looked extremely awkward. They were crashing into each other with reckless abandon and showed no regard for their personal well-being. Everything was havoc and out of array. Smell of mud and grass filled the air. The cheering from the women and children were deafening.

Lothíriel's eyes widened and brightened with bewilderment. Never in her life had she witnessed any sport so free-spirited and wild such as this. She screamed and cheered for the running men. She kept clapping her hands like a child. Her face etched as a thud echoed when someone took a tumble. Her expression was fantasying to the Horselord standing next to her. He had seen her smiling, heard her laughing and giggling. But never such a heartily one. She howled louder as the men were catching up with the pace of the wheel.

Out of the hysteria and frenzy of it all, a champion revealed himself. Dirty and muddy, the same man, who won the previous, emerged from the pack like a bolt of lightning. His gleeful grin was unmistaken. Éothain stood there proud and satisfied when he continued to enjoy the admiration from the entertained crowd.

"Oh my Valar! Éothain has won!" She exclaimed, clapping and jumping. Being overly gratified, she turned around and, to Éomer's surprise, threw her arms around his neck, giving him a bear-hug and screaming in excitement, "He has got the cheese!"

Before his mind could respond to her shocking reaction, she quickly released herself and ran down the slope happily to join the rest of the cheering pack. Her dark hair flew in the air like out-stretched raven wings as he watched her. His brows drew close. He stood there a few moments until the hill came clear of the overjoyed people.

"It went better than I thought, my Lord."

His old friend came to stand next to him.

"Yes, Gamling."

"I am glad you have decided to revive it. The last game, if I recall correctly, was more than three years ago," the older rider remarked, touching his beard.

"Is it ready?" asked Éomer.

"Yes. Our men are collecting woods and branches as we speak," understanding his King's question, Gamling replied according.

"We will head out to the forest tomorrow after breakfast. Get the men ready."

"Aye, Sire."

Unknown to both Éomer and Lothíriel, somewhere there were a pair of eyes that kept watching them over these past few months. These pupils, flaming with anger and jealousy, took in every moment they were close together and each exchange they made.

Revenge is best served cold.

* * *

><p>The next day.<p>

It was Yule. The joyous air of celebration filled every corner of Edoras. Lothíriel now had more time on her hands. Some widows had offered to help out at the orphanage. She was relieved that the children would be able to have the motherly love that she was too busy to offer.

She just realised last night when she came to change at night that she still had Éomer's fur cloak on her. It struck her as she was hardly a forgetful person and moreover she always returned any items she lent to their owners. She ran her fingers tenderly over the smooth soft fur on the hood and the shiny seam along the edge of the red brownish cape. Gold-treaded embroidery of a sun decorated the exterior of the hood. She recognised it was one of the few casual non-ceremonial cloaks that he had. Wrapping it in a parcel, she decided it was best to return it. Keeping it won't change any fact and won't bring any hope either.

After breakfast she left her cottage, heading to Meduseld. While she was outside in the city, she found many men and women were putting saddles on their horses. It was not understandable for her as on the first day of Yule in Dol Amroth, people were supposed to stay at home and celebrate.

Lothíriel caught Éothain coming out from the stable of the Royal Guards with his steed. She hurried her steps and stopped him.

"What is going on? Everyone is saddled up! Are you leaving somewhere?" She grabbed one of his arms and asked.

"Lady Lothíriel, it is the first day of Yule. People are supposed to be out!"

"Out? Not staying at home, are you saying?"

"Exactly, my Lady," said the young rider, "It is boar-hunting! We do it every year on the first day of Yule for our feast!"

"Boar? Hunting?"

Éothain could hear the inevitable excitement and participation in her voice.

"Errr….yeah…" his voice now held significant reservation, knowing what to expect from the woman in front of him.

"Can I come?" her grip on his arm tightened as her face beamed up with expectation. She had always wanted to try hunting. Her father and brothers always forbid her from doing so with unconvincing excuses that she might hurt herself or others. But she was certain that she could tell a man from a hog.

"You will have to ask…."

"Your King," she finished his sentence for him dryly. Her excitement had been just halved.

"Eothain! Have you had everyone ready?"

Speak of the devil. Éomer came descending down on Firefoot, fully armoured with a spear in his left hand.

"I have…..," after a pause, he continued, "….kind of, my Lord."

"Is there a problem?" Éomer asked. He followed the direction of which Éothain's eyes had gone and came to settle on Lothíriel. Excitement had not completely faded and some remained written on her face. So, there was a _problem_, indeed.

"May I, my Lord?" she asked, taking her chance. She brought herself to meet his gaze.

He let out a long breath and looked away from her briefly. Eyes closed, he took another deep breath and turned to her. "Only if you are saddled up properly."

At his words, her face beamed with utter excitement and appreciation.

Then he turned to his young Marshal and said in Rohirric, "Make sure she has some sort of protection."

Understanding what he said, she obeyed excitingly, "Thank you! I will arm myself to my teeth!"

Éomer stretched his lips into a flat line. "We are leaving in a few minutes. Take your maid if you need to. Meet at the gate."

"Come, Éothain! Let's get me armed up!" She smiled, dragging the young Marshal to the stable where her charger was stationed at.

On the way to the stable, she came across Moriel who was with the children.

"Moriel, do you want to come? We are going boar-hunting!"

"No, my lady! I hate horseback riding. It scares my heart out!" The younger woman shook her head.

"Are you certain?"

"Enjoy your hunt, my Lady. I will stay with the children," she encouraged as she waved at them.

"Good Béma! Scary for the horse too!" Éothain murmured to himself, feeling relieved. He knew for the fact that, unlike Lothíriel, Moriel was not skilled with any kind of mount. She panicked easily and would scream and kick, not only terrifying herself and those around her but also frightening the poor steed which had to bear with her shrieks constantly.

Éothain buckled a pair light leather vambraces and greaves around Lothíriel's forearms and forelegs respectively.

"My King must be in an _extremely_ pleasant temper today that he has agreed to your request, given your last experience in the forest with us," he could not help but add some sarcasm.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she defended.

"Did not say you were not."

"I am not going to cause trouble, Éothain."

"Do you remember what he said to you last time?"

"Stay close," she murmured.

"Precisely. So make sure you stay close. There are boars and boars are not nice. They stink and roll in the mud. They attack people. They snort at you. They scare you. They bare their teeth. They have tusks. They can puncture your stomach and you will die in agony."

"Yes! Marshal Éothain!" She deliberately made an obedient face.

"Yes - thats suit you! And -what is this?" He asked abruptly, pointing at a parcel on her saddle.

She quickly snatched it and hid it behind her.

Pulling a straight face, she cleared her throat before answering, "It…it is nothing. Yes, it is nothing."

"It must be something! Is it for your secret admirer?"

"It is not!" She corrected hastily.

"Or, something you received from your secret admirer this morning?"

"No! And I don't have a secret admirer."

"Then what is it?"

"I told you it is nothing!"

"Fine. You can stay here then," he turned around pulling his steed away, knowing for certain she would fall for it.

"Wait!"

He turned around slowly with a victorious smirk.

She sighed.

"It is the cloak that Lord Éomer lent me yesterday at the cheese-rolling game….." After a long pause, she added, "….I meant to return it to him but I forgot."

"Ohhhhhhh.." came the measured response.

She unlocked the door and pulled her mare out of the box."Éothain, let's just get ready. Your King will not be happy if we are la-"

"Lady Lothíriel."

The sudden change of tone in Éothain's tone worried Lothíriel. She turned to him and found his expression stern and grim, ripping off his usual playful nature. A bad feeling crept up her throat.

"Éothain?" She looked at him with a worried face.

He came in front of her and took her hand in his larger ones and squeezed it enough to indicate the importance of his next conversation. His mouth opened and clamped.

And he finally said in a slightly shaking tone, "That morning when you told me to watch out for Éomer King's safety, I thought you were overreacting. When we arrived in Snowbourn, we took out the outlaws. It was a chaotic. There were many of them. Just when I thought it was safe, I let my guide loose. A spear came from nowhere, darting towards him. I screamed at him. He turned around and the spear cut just through his left collar. I shouted and ran towards him. I thought I had lost him."

"Éothain," she could only give him a smile at this moment.

"I cannot thank you enough, my Lady. I owe you that my King is alive today. If there is ever anything you need, that I can do for you, please do let me know," he said, his eye glittering with sincerity.

"I need nothing from you. Just keep your King safe. That is all I ask," she said, squeezing his shoulder. She spoke truth – she did wish that for him.

"Let's move, my Lady. The boars are calling for us."

* * *

><p>The woods was not far and was only slightly more than one hour on horse. The Rohirrim set up a small camp just at the border.<p>

"There are several dens here. We are hunting those in the east. Be careful where you are going. The evil that Saruman has sown still dwells," said their King, "we will rest for ten minutes then we will start."

Éothain and Lothíriel founded a shaded spot and decided to have their break there. After sipping some water, she turned to the young rider, "What are you going to do with your cheese?"

Éothain, touching his mouth with his hand, tried to finish chewing his apple before answering, "Eat it! It is food which you know the best of! What else do you think I will do with it?"

"But you must have many! I have been told that you won the previous game too!"

"The previous game was a few years ago. I was only," he drew his eyebrows, making an attempt to calculate his age in his blond head, "twenty one, I think. Hmmm, must be twenty one. That was my first win."

"Oh? Did you not win all the previous game then?"

"No. I only won because the previous champion retired. He held the record for eight years."

"That is impressive. Is that person still alive?"

"He is and is standing in front of you," Éothain pointed at the tall figure, who was talking to Gamling, not far in front of them.

"Lord Éomer?" She could barely hide the disbelief in her voice.

Other than surprises, it was still surprises. Lothíriel failed to tie Éomer with a rolling object down the slope and moreover, him running after it. Her mind only registered comical pictures when she tried to bind them together.

"What are you laughing at?" Éothain was puzzled that she found it funny.

"Forgive me! My limited wisdom fails to establish connection between your King and a wheel of rolling cheese. It just does not add up!" she offered her apology with a smile and then she burst into louder laughter.

"Look, he is really good. He has this special tactic of -" His speech was interrupted before he could finish.

"Form up!" The order came, putting the break to an end.

"We are estimating to get around five boars today. We only hunt for inactive boars today. If you see sounders with sows and offspring, back off and take an alternate route. These are creatures of vicious temperament if provoked. Gamling, take your group to the left side, go along the stream. Stán, take yours to the right and do not go beyond the mallorn trees. Éothain, follow me with your guards. Women stay behind the men. Do not engage until you see my signal."

At his words, the men and women gathered around their respective leaders into the woodland.

"Where do you think you are going?" Éomer extended his arm in front of her.

"You said women stay behind the men. I am going to stay behind your Royal Guards."

"No. You stay with me and _right_ behind me. Always. Understand?" he said in a commanding tone which indicated clearly he did not want to hear any objections.

There was about a mile of dark water between her and any sense of this. Why did she need to stay right behind him? Did he think that she was that incapable?

She opened her mouth, wanted to say something but decided to clamp her jaws tight instead.

"I need you to follow my orders," he reminded her.

"I think _I am_," she replied flatly, turning her head away.

Grabbing his spear, he waved at his people, "Let's move."

The day was perfect. The sky was a deep blue. Unlike Druádan Forest, this woodland was less dense with some areas of open habitats. Sunshine seeping through the canopy and the light shade cast away the usual eerie air of a forest. The smell of grass and fresh soil filled her nostrils, Lothíriel felt something fall on her head. And again. From the corner of her eye, she looked up, shadowing the blinding ray with one hand, to see a brown squirrel darting back up an old tree. She looked down to her feet and saw some brownish golden cracked acorns. Birds poured forth their singing as they flittered among the emerald clad boughs. Their boisterous tune harmonised the aquatic melody of a glittering stream.

"Don't draw unnecessary attention," he said in a low tone.

"I am not," she hissed as she hopped over fallen trees and tangling twigs.

The company moved with caution silently. Éomer was ahead of everybody else. The air soon lost its pleasant odour. A flow of repulsive foul smell sent them pinching their noses.

"We are near. Do you see there?"

He leaned low and gestured to her.

She raised her head a little to follow the direction he was referring.

A loud snort broke the silence. There, she saw it. A large boar was stamping around an old, rotting tree stump. It was its den. The beast made another snort. There were flies buzzing around it. It was alone. There were no sows or young hogs. She assumed this creature belonged to what Éomer mentioned earlier the inactive boars.

"Are we taking it now?" she asked, making no attempt at all to hide the enthusiasm in her voice.

"Try to curb your enthusiasm, my Lady."

"I'll curb it when we get this beast down," she continued to watch their target with great eagerness. To say she was excited was an understatement. Her adventurous nerve completely dominated her sense. Her blood was boiling with anticipation.

He felt her tiniest movement.

"Stay still," he glimpsed at her over his shoulder.

"I know."

They waited a few moments before Éomer gave the sign to proceed. Footsteps closed in surrounding the boar. The beast became instantly alert with the potential threat. Its head rose with ears pulled back. It bore its brown fangs, growling loudly to warn its enemies. The tusked beast lowered its head, grinding his tusks on the ground and stamping its hoofs heavily when it saw the tall figure not far in front of it.

Lothíriel saw Éomer getting up from their position. He was now standing in front of the wild boar with a spear in his hands. The enraged beast appeared much larger than she remembered boars should be. It was certainly huge enough to kill a man if it fell on one.

The staring between the two carried on for a while, either side was backing down. The grey boar let out a final warning snort and it charged rapidly towards the standing man. Éomer stood his ground without flinching as the beast made its way to meet him. The distance between them drew shorter.

"Éomer!" she whispered worriedly as the animal was less than a few feet from him.

Her heart near missed a beat as she watched him standing still and only to lift his spear until the last possible moment, until it was almost on him, before he killed it with a single sure, savage thrust.

"It is done." He let out a huge breath.

"What were you thinking? That was close!" She ran to him.

"They feel pain too. Best way to kill is to let them die in one shot," he threw her a frown before waving at the men to tow the dead animal.

His answer struck her a little. She somehow felt ashamed of herself for momentarily forgetting the agony of animals when they were killed for food.

They went to get hunt a few smaller boars. It was a success. They had more luck than they imagined. They managed to get six boars. Still they swept cautiously when they made their way back to their camp. The dead animals were bandaged to soak up the bleeding. Wounds were dapped with strong herbs. Seeing this and not understanding it, she quickened her steps to be next to him and asked, "Why are we wrapping bandages around them?"

"Blood attracts predators," he scanned the trees carefully, "what else dwells here, I do not know."

The air became humid and dense with some unearthly eerie when they reached a rise land. The trees appeared to be inanimate corpses covered in a thick layer of darkness. Lothíriel felt her hackles behind her back stand. The feeling of safety in her heart disappeared in the silence. Subconsciously, she moved herself closer to him, grabbing his arm. He halted abruptly. She looked at him, thinking he had felt the sudden change in the air too.

He gestured at his people. They leaned down quietly. Without warning, he then ducked and pressed her down, his free arm wrapping tightly around her. His other hand stayed on the hilt of his sword. He felt the woman in his arm trembling. Her face was drained of blood. Her lips were frighteningly pale. Her hands clung on his chainmail so tight that her knuckles turned white. Deepening twilight of fear filled her eyes.

The wind blew again in their direction, whispering through the bushes. The bald trees swayed with each wave. Dread filled the air. It was implacable. The merciless howls continued in the air. The rustling became louder. The frostfallen leaves swirled violently in the air. There were dark eerie sounds that seemed to echo off of the trees, falling back to where they were hiding.

Her heart stopped in her chest as the echoes of coming footsteps drew closer to them and peaked. For a moment she dared not breathe. She closed her eyes, praying that they had not been seen. She felt the arm around her tightened more. Opening her eyes, she looked up at the man who was shielding her with his massive frame.

He said nothing but his eyes told her to stay still. For that very brief moment, she felt protected. Unknown to her, the feeling she sealed around the wall of heart began to leak again.

Then they heard the receding footsteps. They did not rise until it was long gone.

Éomer released her from his arm. Instantly she felt something warm had left her.

"What were they?" She asked, still trying to steady her breaths.

"_**Barghests**_! Cursed and corrupted creatures that serve the evil. We are lucky that the wind blew in our favour. Otherwise we would have been their feast!"

"We'd better leave this place. Move!" he turned around to his people, motioning them to increase their pace.

* * *

><p>It had gone past lunch time when they returned to Edoras. Many quickly dropped their horses in the stables and hurried to fill their long growling stomachs.<p>

Lothíriel could not eat much. Her appetite had been greatly sickened by the unpleasant encounter before. She stretched her arms and limbs to shake off the after side. Taking a deep, long breath, she marched her way to the kitchen of Meduseld. She carried a parcel which contained the red fur cloak, hoping to return to its owner.

She needed to look for something to keep herself busy. She needed to occupy her thoughts to wipe off the morning fear. The distinct sound of peeling flesh rang from the kitchen. She entered and saw Éomer, a knife in his hand, preparing the huge boar that they killed this morning. He threw her a quick cast when he saw her but said nothing.

Fascinated by his swift skill, she observed with unhidden enthusiasm.

"May I try?" she asked, setting aside the parcel in her hands.

He rolled his eyes, much to his disbelief that this woman was beset by the blood and the smell, but instead she wanted to try to dress a dead animal.

He titled his head to signal her to the tools on the table.

Taking that as an approval, she washed her hands thoroughly and dried them before putting a clean apron around and unrolling the pack of devices.

"Take that!" Wiping the blood of his hands on a piece of rug, he pointed at a small piece of knife.

"This?" she took it.

He came closer to her, tapping the edge of her knife with his fingertip. "This is called incision knife. As the name implies, it is used to make an initial incision down the belly."

He pulled a small boar onto her table. Lifting one of the hind legs, he pointed at a position in between, "First cut starts from here," sliding his finger along the pink skin, "and it ends here. Do it as light as you can. A punctured bladder will spoil everything."

She pressed the tip of her knife onto the still warm dead beast, gliding its sharp tip along as instructed. Red liquid slowly leaked from the opening and soon crept over the worktop and dripped from the table.

"Are you sure you want to continue?" he turned to her, unsure of her mentality after the ordeal this morning.

"I might be frightened to death by a barghest but I think I can handle a dead animal," she replied disapprovingly.

"I am just offering."

"I am smart enough to know what I am doing. And, I am not a weakling."

"Stupid and tough often make a bad combination," he remarked without looking at her, before drawing an unimpressed expression.

"Now, with both hands, rummage around the cavity just beneath the rib cage. You need to severe the organs from the body and pull everything out," he went back to his dead animal, demonstrating the next step to her.

She followed his instruction, inserting her hands into the dead body. The blood was thick and coating her fingers. It felt slippery and sticky. She found the organs, supple and full. There were many, small and big of different shapes and texture.

"Cut them off the body. Pull!"

She bit her lip, trying to separate the organs. It was harder than she imagined. Another harder pull, then all the innards came all at once slipping out of the abdominal cavity with sloshing noise. They fell and splat on the floor.

"Find the liver, if it is not soiled, it will be a good delicacy in itself," he said as his hands worked on the piece of the fore-mentioned organ.

"I have got it, I think," she brushed off the sweat on her forehead with the back of her sleeve. It was exhausting and plus, she had not eaten much at lunch.

"Gently trim out the bladder and pull out everything else that is left. Keep the intestines aside, the bowyers will come around to collect them. Wash the throat with water but leave the head untouched."

She did as told. He noticed that she did not even flinch once since they started.

"They are a hearty stock, aren't they? We will have enough meat to feed," she said while leaning over to dissection the remaining organs.

"Most tender meat ever. The marrow from the bones gives any dish a richer taste. But not everyone has the stomach for it."

She lifted her head up, her eyes shone with excitement, "So we are finally on the same page!"

"Same page of what?"

He obviously did not get it.

Her short-lived excitement died down.

"Never mind," she murmured.

He responded with a shaking head.

"Pass me the tusks," he demanded extending his arm.

"Here."

"Next, we skin the fur off. Swap to a wider and thinner knife."

"Yes. Where do I start?"

"Where you started just before. Slip your finger beneath the fur and you will feel the layer of fat, start your knife from there."

"Where?" she asked, her eyes searching aimlessly on the dead beast.

He sighed and approached her. Lifting the skin, he showed the opening for her to begin. "Here!"

She inserted her fingers in between the layers, trying to get more space for her knife to work through.

"Watch your fingers, woman!" He shouted. She looked as careless as a child could be with a knife.

She only threw him a quick annoying cast. Her knife slid easily and effortlessly, separating the fur from the meat. Her movement was fluid, almost flawless. His eyes narrowed as he noticed this.

"Ouch!" she screamed, pulling her hand out, blood dripping from her index finger.

_Stupid, stupid woman!_ He cursed.

"Told you stupid and tough is a bad idea," he came around, grabbing her cut finger and pressed it in a piece of spirit-soaked cloth. Although annoyed, he found his voice was soaked with more concern than irritation.

"Do I smelly irony in your voice? Or was it sarcasm?"

"Since when do those two exclude each other?"

Her face etched whilst the spirit penetrated into her open wound, causing sharp needling pain.

He frowned at her face, removing her finger from the blood-soaked cloth and dapping it with another clean one. There was tenderness that slipped through his action, which he did not see himself.

"You know how to use a sword, you should have been more careful with a knife!"

Surprised and shocked at his remark, she pulled her hand off quickly from his clasp. She became instantly defensive. "How did you know?"

He cleaned his hands in a basin of water and said before drying them, "Trying to remove the callused skin with a pumice stone is not a bad idea. It just takes a pair of really keen eyes to notice. There is no need to hide what you are capable of."

"You don't understand," she said coldly and turned her face away.

"I don't not wish to understand. And, your job is done here. Leave the work to others."

"Wait!"

He turned back and probed, "What?"

"Thank you."

He acknowledged her appreciation with a light nod and turned around again.

"Wait again, please!" she stopped him again.

"Can you not finish everything at once?"

He turned back to her, annoyed.

Her gaze was unsettling, drifting around her feet before she could bring herself to look at him.

"Your cloak. I meant to return it to you. It is over there," she pointed at a parcel on the table.

He glimpsed at it and replied in a milder tone, "I told you to keep it."

"I can't. It is yours. It is inappro-"

He cut her off.

"Is there anything you would just accept, my Lady?"

"Yes….," she paused for a while before saying, "…compliments."

She could not deny that she did wish him to approve her work and her effort. She had worked hard to prove her worthiness. If only a single word from him could acknowledge her of her importance or otherwise, then she could sleep better. That eventful night would stop haunting her, stopping her from formulating any wishful thinking. Truth is the best medicine. So simple yet difficult to seek.

"You can find them overflowing from someone else. Have a good day, my Lady. I will see you tonight."

And he left.

She exhaled heavily, uncertain of the emotions going through her now. She felt she had been slapped in the face. She stood there for a long while and she did not know until Éothain woke up from her reverie.

"My Lady!"

It startled her. Putting a hand on her chest to soothe the shock, she turned to him, "Éothain, I would appreciate if you make an effort trying to make a proper presence."

"I called you a few times. You were completely out."

"I am sorry. I must have been dreaming."

"By the look of it, you had some fun with dead animals?" he paced around the kitchen, inspecting the beasts on the tables.

"If you called it fun, then it is fun."

"Oh," he stopped in front of the boar she had dressed, "this looks interesting. What is this? I can't tell with all the blood and mess."

He lifted it up and put it close to his nose.

"It is the genital!" she exclaimed putting a hand to her mouth to hide her shock, then said slowly in a guilty tone, "I pulled it out from the inside…it might not look how it should be…"

He dropped the piece of bloody mess immediately.

"You sniffed it…."

"Does that ….disgust you?"

"No…." she walked away slowly to wash her hands, trying to sound as normal as possible, "it is actually the first…. ever thing you have ever done to…impress me."

The young Marshal smacked his own forehead.

"Good Béma! I have never done anything this potentially stupid before!"

* * *

><p>Later in the afternoon.<p>

Whilst at a local store, Éomer stood in front of a grey-haired old man.

Inspecting the item in his hand closely and carefully with a magnified glass, the old man said, "This is of surprising strength and beauty. You can see no flaws in the tusk. A tusk such as this might command admiration from the dwarves, but in the hands of an Elven weaponsmith this tusk could become a deadly weapon. I must say I am still impressed with your skills."

He dropped his magnifying glass and turned to his King, rubbing his beard, "when do you need it, my Lord?"

"Tonight. Before the flame leaps into life. Can you do it?"

"Anything for you," the old man grinned at him.

Tonight Yuletide began officially and surprises awaited those even with least anticipation.

**TBC**

**Chapter 18: Éomer discovers himself? Or, does he not? Losing self-control is a bad thing...**

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><p><strong><em>Footnotes:<em>**

**Mōdraniht**: (Old English "Night of the Mothers" or "Mothers'-night") was an event held at what is now Christmas Eve by the Anglo-Saxon Pagans where a sacrifice may have been made. The event is attested by the medieval English historian Bede in his 8th century Latin work _De temporum ratione_. Scholars have proposed connections between the Anglo-Saxon Mōdraniht and events attested among other Germanic peoples (specifically those involving the dísir, collective female beings, and Yule) and the Germanic Matres and Matrones, female beings attested by way of altar and votive inscriptions, nearly always appearing in trios.

**Rice**: (_noun_) **people** in Old English

**Cēse**:(_noun_) **cheese** in Old English. The cheese in this chapter is based on the appearance of French Comté from Franche-Comté region of eastern France.

**Cheese-rolling:** It is an annual event held on the Spring Bank Holiday at Cooper's Hill, (grid reference SO892146) near Gloucester in the Cotswolds region of England. It is also known as **The Cooper's Hill Cheese-Rolling and Wake **and is traditionally by and for the people who live in the local village of Brockworth, but now people from all over the world take part. The event takes its name from the hill on which it occurs. (Note: Gloucester was part of the Anglo-Saxon region in the UK.)

**Barwick**: Old English name for a farmer, meaning outlying barley farm

**Sounder**: Sows and their offspring (both sub-adult males and females) live in groups called _sounders_

**Inactive males**: Sexually inactive boars, usually less aggressive

**Barghest**, **Bargtjest**, **Bo-guest**, **Bargheist**, **Bargeist**, **Barguist**, **Bargest** or **Barguest** is the name often given in the north of England, especially in Yorkshire, to a legendary monstrous black dog with huge teeth and claws, though in other cases the name can refer to a ghost or Household elf, especially in Northumberland and Durham.

* * *

><p><strong>I have spent the last week trying to compile a chapter for Yule, digging into the Yule celebration of Anglo-Saxon people and engrossing it into this chapter (Both Mōdraniht and boar-hunting were the actual Yule culture of Anglo-Saxon). But by the length of it, I will need another chapter. There was also a lot of work to study the correct way of dressing a dead animal (if you have a weak heart, I am sorry) and trying to capture the spirit of cheese-rolling game.<br>**

**A big thank you to the reviewers without whom I would never find the motivation to continue! I was really surprised by the number of reviews that I received!**

**Sic Vita Est: I really hesitated if I should include this night scene in his bedchamber. I am glad I did :)**

**AHealingRenaissance: I think many did not see that coming either ;)**

**Glory Bee: Hope this chapter will leave you with the same level of anticipation too!**

**Shy: I won't reveal too much yet. The road to happiness is always a bumpy one!**

**B5delenn: I am sure she is a clever lady but you never know as love is blind!**

**Talia119: Glad you like my story! Thank you for your kind comment and reminder that Rohirrim is plural and Rohir is singular. I am yet to find a beta-reader.**

**BrightWatcher: Thank you! In my opinion, Éomer always has a very strong presence. This man has character and I enjoy writing him**

**LadyAvi: to stay or not to stay – that is the question.**

**Rogue's Queen: Don't we all love cliffhangers? And curse it when it finishes just there! :D**

**Hope you all have enjoyed this chapter!**


	18. of Dirty and Armed

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms  
><strong>_

_**Chapter 18: of Dirty and Armed**_

* * *

><p>The same evening.<p>

"My Lady?"

Lothíriel came out from her bedchamber to find Gamling standing at the door of her cottage. She welcomed the old rider with a warm smile.

"Yes, Lord Gamling. What can I help you with?"

"You might want to join everyone outside if you don't want to miss your first Rohirric Yule feast. My Lady, if you would please."

He raised his right hand. It was an invitation that Lothíriel could not decline.

"My pleasure, my Lord."

She put her left palm on the back of his wrinkled hand lightly with the grace of an educated woman. She had grown fond of Gamling. The old Rohír certainly reminded her all the wisdom and courtesy that an old man could offer. She liked Gamling's unbiased opinion and judgement that often did not necessarily agree with either hers or Éomer's. He reminded her very much of her father whom she missed dearly.

Dusk was gone and the curtain of bright stars drew across the sky. She could smell smoke of birch wood and tempting aroma of roasted meat. As they made their way to the open area between The Terrace and Midvale, a risen object slowly came into view and became clearer and bigger.

Completely surprised by the view in front of her, she brought her hand to her open mouth.

"I hope that brings a little feel of home to you, my Lady," the old rider turned to her and smiled.

"Oh Gamling! Thank you so much!"

She threw her arms around him and hugged him fondly, kissing him on his cheeks, like a daughter to a father. Words could not describe how happy and grateful she was. She felt warm liquid creeping into her eyes and wanting to fall but she must not bend to them for now. For a moment she felt loved. Very much.

In front of them it stood a tall heap of logs, branches and twigs. It was for the bon fire. Surrounding it, there were campfires ignited for roasting animals. Tables and benches were lined outside with all kinds of food, most of which she had not seen before.

"Let us join them," he offered his arm again and she happily accepted it.

Many were gathering in front of the pyre, not wanting to miss the majestic moment of lighting it. The children and women danced, happy as larks. Men, old and young, sat around singing their folk songs. Light tunes of flutes filled the air. Lothíriel was more than delighted. She was overwhelmed by the spirit of these people in front of her. She did not know they could sing so well. She went around embracing as many as she could until she nearly crashed into a wall of muscle.

Éomer stood in front of her. He wore his signature green tunic with royal interlace embroidery around the collar and sleeves. He looked kingly and she admitted silently to herself that there was certain appeal in his appearance tonight. She could not tell if he was smiling or not under the dim flickering fire.

"You should sit. We are going to start the bon fire and the Boar's Head Feast will follow."

He gestured her to a space next to the pyre.

"Boar's Head Feast?"

Her eyes shone again with great enthusiasm.

"It is a Rohirric tradition on the first night of Yuletide. The banquet does not start until the boar head is present."

"That is why we went boar-hunting this morning!" she realised it a bit too late. Rohirrim never did anything for no reasons or purposes.

"If you please sit."

This time he almost smiled at her.

She could feel her ears burning and it spread to her cheeks very rapidly. She blushed once not out of embarrassment. She lowered her head and obeyed, waiting with hidden anticipation. She saw him taking a torch and approaching the heap of wood and slowly lowering it down. The orange embers flew up swiftly and the fire leapt in life, scattering stars of gold and brightening the dark sky. The cackling noise of fire soon became unheard when the sounds of trumpets echoed endless and the songs of minstrels delivered the melodies of winter.

The Royal Guards descended from Meduseld with a stretcher on their shoulders. On the stretcher, the boar's head sat on a silver dish with an apple in the mouth. Lothíriel immediately recognised that beast. It was the giant hog that Éomer killed this morning. The songs and ballads of minstrels peaked at their highest notes for a long while then stopped. The host gradually came down and arrived in front of the bon fire. Another trumpet was sounded and the silver dish was laid to rest on the table in the middle of all. Shortly after that, all the smaller boars were brought out from the kitchen and placed on the tables. There were also deers and lambs and sizzling on the campfires. The whole banquet was heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread.

After all had been seated, toasts were made, thanks were given and returned, and then Éomer turned to his adviser, "Let the feast begin."

Gamling motioned to the residents of Edoras. The crowd cheered. Children were among the first to circle around the table to get the first taste of the wild beasts.

The simmers of embers lit against the dark cauldron of the night. Sparks drifted like fireflies. Lothíriel took in everything with complete amazement and compassion. She never thought she could feel so festive in a foreign land. There might not be Yule gifts but the spirit was there, so strong and warm. The smile she had since she arrived had not left her face. Her eyes were locked on the blazing flame in front of her. She recollected the first time she met the Rohirrim in Minas Tirith. First time she met Éomer and her initial impression of him. Dirty and armed.

"_Dirty and armed_?"

Someone repeated her words.

Waking up from her sea of memory, she must have spoken her mind out aloud. She quickly adjusted herself and apologised to the person before her.

"I am sorry, Éothain. If you could kindly rephrase your question please?"

"I asked you how you would like your boar-steak and you said, 'dirty and armed'!"

Éothain's voice was loud enough to attract some attention around them, including Éomer who was standing not far from the table.

She lowered her face, feeling the blazing from all the eyes on her. He just had to repeat her words again. Éothain was not very smart sometimes.

"I meant cooked, not too old, just mature, but juicy. Oh my Valar, just give me anything please," she felt her tongue tied and she struggled to find the right word to ease her embarrassment.

The young Rohír passed her a plate with a huge parcel of meat on it.

"Here you go! A nice, hearty piece of boar—steak, sizzling in its own juices! You should try it with our Yule bread made especially from the famous black barley flour of the Riddermark! It is lip-smacking!"

"Thank you, Éothain. I think this will suffice," she wanted to escape to a corner where nobody could see her blushing face.

"There are some mutton hotpots too! Scrumptious potato scones just there!"

"I will help myself. Thank you," she eyed at him to shut him up.

She settled herself on an empty bench and turned around to fill her wine cup from a passing flagon. The sweet, fruity scent of wine filled her nose when she brought the cup close to her nose, inhaling the aroma with her eyes closed. Nice wine. This brought a satisfying smile to her lips. She felt a heavy object just sank her bench. Her hand and her wine cup hanged in midair. She opened her eyes slowly and glimpsed from the corner of her eyes. It was the same green tunic that she had seen before - the King of the Riddermark now saw next to her.

What should she do? Ignore him? Smile at him?

Just when she was digging her heels, her festive courtesy paid off. She turned to him and raised her wine cup in both hands at him, "Wes þu Éomer hāl!"

The moment the words left her lips, it shocked her for the admiration she still held for him. She had never addressed in this way, she had always and only called him Lord.

"Thank you," he smiled, accepting the wine from her and sipping it.

She could not bring herself to look at him. His voice sounded very different. It was less cold and more passionate?

"You should try the boar before it turns cold."

"I will," she lowered her cup rather clumsily and almost spilled the wine over.

She tried to gather all her attention and focus it on the steak in front of her. Picking up a small piece with a fork, she sent it into her mouth. And the first thought that it brought was it was terribly delicious! The meat simply melted on her tongue. So good that she had to cover her mouth while chewing it down.

"It is good," he agreed with her expression.

After taking her time to swallow the juicy portion, she turned to him, "How can it be this good?"

"Old folks say the Ent Draught flows under the springs into the forest and the boars drink from it. Maybe that explains."

She nodded to agree and reached for her wine. Just when she was in the middle of sipping more, she came to sudden realisation that he had just drunk from her cup and she froze, unsure if it was better to stop drinking from the same cup at all or pretending that it did not happen and continue as usual. Then she heard a light chuckle. From the corner of her eyes, she could see him trying hard to suppress his lips from moving upwards. Slightly irritated, she tilted and drained the wine.

"You have a man's thirst, my Lady."

"I could do another to the raucous delight of the crowd," she lifted an eyebrow at him.

Surrounding the roaring fire, there was the clangor of plates and cups, and the low mutter of hundreds happy Rohirrim. These people were fine company. She relished the conversation they were sharing, tales of battles, hunting adventures and old folk stories. Lothíriel watched Éomer with amusement as he shared jokes with his men. He was still very sharp-featured and huge as a bear even without his armour. There was a hint of laughter in his dark eyes.

She refilled her cup and swallowed another gulp of wine.

"I wonder how many men could beat your drinking," he observed.

"Not many, my Lord," she smiled proudly, "my brothers trained me well."

He chuckled at her swelling pride.

"My Lord, my Lady, may we?" An old rider and a young man stood opposite them.

Éomer nodded at both his henchmen. Gamling sat, facing them whilst Éothain straddled the bench, with long legs and filled the wine cups for both himself and Gamling.

"To health and Rohan!" Gamling raised his cup.

His three other companions responded simultaneously. "To health and Rohan!"

"I hope you have found your first Yuletide Festival in Rohan pleasant, my Lady."

"Thank you, Gamling. It would be quite an unforgotten Yule indeed," she smiled at the old man, "It is very different. We only speak tales of ocean fairies, myths of Forochel and boast about ourselves being the best angler in Dol Amroth. The tradition of Yule and table conversation of the Mark, I must say, is very fascinating."

"You should be at the dining table in Meduseld. Whenever the éored returns, they bring news of adventures beyond imagination, funny stories of how enemies flee like headless chickens upon hearing the mighty gallops of our horses!"

"Really?"

Her eyes shone with inevitable amazement, Lothíriel felt she had gone back to her childhood when her father would tell her stories of the old kingdoms in Evendim and Fornost.

"Perhaps you want to join us in Meduseld. I am certain that you would not be disappointed!" Éothain inserted without giving any thought.

"I-" she wanted to continue saying _would love to_, but she hesitated, realising that it meant dining in Meduseld and spending more of her time being around Éomer's presence, something which she still wished to avoid. The joy on her face quickly died down.

"You should."

The words interrupted her thoughts.

All three pairs of eyes turned to the King.

Wiping off the wine with back of his sleeve, he rocked his empty glass gently in his hand and spoke to nobody in particular, "Mægen always ate with us."

"Oh."

She did not know how she should reply to that. It was not a request, was not a demand either. It sounded almost a suggestion but came more closely as an invite?

He pushed himself to his feet. "If there is no objection, we will expect your presence in Meduseld from tomorrow onwards."

"I think my King has just agreed to it," Éothain hissed to her as they watched Éomer ascending to the Golden Hall.

"Éothain! I would appreciate if you pass your words twice through your mind before letting them out! That was unnecessary!"

"I was doing a favour, I thought," he defended innocently.

She sighed. She looked up and saw Éomer almost reaching Meduseld.

His action clouded her thoughts. She felt the strong urge to demand his reasons behind it.

"Excuse me, my Lords," she could not hold herself back any longer. Perhaps it was the wine that bolstered her courage.

And she went after the Horselord.

He stood, with his hands behind him, outside at the porch of his hall, peering across his city and observing his people.

"My Lord!"

She went up to him, a little breathless.

"May I enquire what has made you to decide that?"

Her voice sounded more infuriated than she thought.

"My Lady, if you have no gratitude in your heart and prefer to be a giant snapping turtle, then do feel free to spoil your first Yuletide in Rohan."

He frowned lightly, not very happy with the dissatisfaction in her voice. He knew her character and attempting any reasoning with her would only result in another fight. And he rather not ruined the first evening of Yule with this.

That sent her silent. She pressed her lips together and said nothing.

"I've heard Hannor has showed some talent."

He decided to change the subject.

"According to your people, he is deemed quite gifted with horses despite being a son of Gondor. He spends most of his time working with them and taking care of them."

"My stable masters speak highly of him."

"He has helped with a few rather difficult tasks."

"I hope he has been properly rewarded in that case."

"I got him a saddle as a Yule gift."

She finally smiled. Talking about Hannor always brought some joy and made her proud.

"A destrier."

"I beg your pardon?" she prompted, confused by his sudden blunt.

"I offered him a yearling."

"He-…" she wanted to say that Hannor was too young to take care of a horse alone but quickly realised the man in front of him knew more about horses than she ever did in her whole life. She was thrilled with his offer, most importantly his gesture of appreciation.

"Thank you."

She knew not what else to say.

"He is an intelligent boy, I must say, more than his other Gondorian party."

She knew this was too good to be true without some sarcasm.

"What do you mean?" she asked with a downward twist of her mouth.

"I am certain if it were him in the kitchen, he would not have cut his finger."

He just had to do it. She felt anger rise inside her.

"Are you implying that I was stupid, my Lord?"

"You would be if you had not seeked a healer after that."

"To your upmost pure delight, I did seek medical assistance! See for yourself!" she held her bandaged finger in front of him, turning her enraged face away. What was this man thinking? Much to her vast dismay, he just had to annoy her every day.

Then she felt a little weight on her arm, she instantly looked back.

"What is this?"

Questioning frown sat between her brows - an ivory bracelet of intricate carving coiled around her wrist. Did he just place the bracelet around her wrist when she was not looking?

This was unexpected.

"The compliment you seeked."

He answered calmly, his tone either warm or cold, gesturing at the object on her wrist.

"For Valar's sake!" She cursed. It was the rudest manner she had ever seen of offering a gift to someone. "Could you at least try to present it with some courtesy, my Lord?"

"I was just matching my tactic to the subject. You do not seem to possess the ability to have moments of rational thought, so the usual courtesy will most likely fail. Enjoy the rest of the evening, my Lady."

He turned his feet and went inside Meduseld.

His words did make her speechless. If he had tried the formal way of offering her this gift, it was certain that she would just decline it immediately. That man knew her brain better than she did herself. Curse him.

She lifted her arm, trying to unclasp the bracelet but it was a dead lock. Then she could not take her eyes off it. She recognised it was made from a boar tusk, probably of those they killed this morning. Stepping closer to a torch, she examined her newly-received gift. Ornate horseheads encompassed around the ivory band. The clasps were made of polished silver and beaten into the shape of horseshoe ring. Sapphire-flecked horse eyes shone with life under the flame as if they were roaring around her wrist. The bracelet was detailed and skilfully carved. As she looked closer, she discovered a very minute engraving that read 'Éomer, son of Éomund, Yule 3019 T.A.'

He carved the tusk himself. She felt her heart missed a beat at the moment.

She turned around but realised he was already long gone.

And, she had not thanked him.

**TBC**

**Chapter 19: When they both nearly lose it...**

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><p><em><strong>Footnote<strong>_

1. **_Boar's Head Tradition_**: According to Wikipedia, it was "initiated in all probability on the **_Isle of Britain_** by the _**Anglo-Saxons**_, although our knowledge of it comes substantially from medieval times...[In ancient Norse tradition] sacrifice carried the intent of imploring Freyr to show favor to the new year. The boar's head with apple in mouth was carried into the banquet hall on a gold or silver dish to the sounds of trumpets and the songs of minstrels." It is still widely practised at some universities and colleges today.

2. **_Royal interlace embroidery_**: Rohirric tapestry design is based on _**Celtic**_ interlace art as based on Jackson's Trilogy.

3. Boar tusk: It is known to have been material for jewellery and weapons.

4. Éomer's behaviour: Has difficulty to express positive feeling openly (evident from the exchange with his sister at Dunharrow camp). Personally I think the war and the loss of his family have a significant and negative impact on his emotion. Not saying he is a miserable man, he is just not used and not good at delivering positive emotion. I have dug in more into behavourial science and will adjust his temperament according with the flow of the story.

5. _**Destrier**_: name for war horse, common used in Medival Ages.

6. Gamling: He has always been one of my favourite Rohirrim. Undoubtly faithful and royal to his King. I really like the scene in which he helped Théoden to put his armour on and another which he laughed so happily when the Hobbits danced on the table (even after they kicked off his tankard!) His role will have a major breakthrough in deciding the fate of Mr and Mrs Éomundsson.

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><p><strong>Reviewer Acknowledgement<strong>

**b5delenn: Last chapter was indeed hard to compile. And how did you guess the Yule gift? =p**

**BrightWatcher: Bannock is a type of bread I think! I have not been to Ireland, despite staying to close (UK, doh!)!**

**Rogue's Queen: Cheese-rolling is fun! People in UK do it for the fun and sake of completing it. The prize is £10 + a wheel of cheese, not adding the bruises and cuts that come along with it!**

**You cant rush science: Thank you! :) You can't rush emotions either! ;)**

**j: I believe it is the first review you left for my story, thank you!**

**anawe217: Haha! Constant clashing will soon explore one day! :D**

**Thank you again for everyone who has been supporting my story so far! Without you, there won't be any motivation to continue. And I do welcome volunteered beta!  
><strong>


	19. of Heart and Broken

**Warning: Content may contain explicit description not suitable for children.**

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><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

_**Chapter 19: of Heart and Broken**_

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><p><em>The furthest distance in the world is not when I stand in front of you <em>

_Yet you can't see my love _

_But when undoubtedly knowing the love from both _

_Yet cannot be together _

**~Anon**

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><p>Post Yule.<p>

Edoras.

The next day marked beginning of the strange days of dining in Meduseld. It did not go as badly as Lothíriel had imagined and she soon grew used to it. Once in a while, there were always some events that were beyond her control. One such occasion was when Marshal of the West-Mark, Lord Erkenbrand visited Edoras with his new recruits to swear their loyalty to Éomer.

It was a morning in early January, a week after Yuletide ended. A ringing blast broke the chilly afternoon. Many residents came out to welcome the Marshal and his company. Lothíriel had only met the old Marshal once when he came to pay his final respect to Théoden. The riders slowly made their way up to Meduseld. The man leading them was tall and strong, Lothíriel recognised the signature red shield and black horn that he bore. There were many low mutters among the new recruits. Many of them were young and judging from their response, it was their first time stepping on the soil of Edoras.

Surprises always came when one least expected it. It was their fourth day in Edoras. They had just finished their lunch and were on a half an hour break before their training began. To say it was a training session, perhaps, it was a wrong choice of word. The recruits were expected to demonstrate their skill of swordmanship to their King. A few were nervous for they did not know their King. Besides that, Éomer's temper, somehow, weaved a legendary tale in the worried mind of some poor souls. He loved his men, but he also trained them hard.

Of course, there were always a very few bold ones. One that took the chance wherever there was one.

In the kitchen of Meduseld, Lothíriel was overseeing the preparation for tea break when a recruit came up to her.

"I've heard you are a diplomat from Gondor, my Lady?" He grinned boyishly, speaking Westron with a Westfold accent.

"Uh huh," she made a casual acknowledgement and looked up at a very young man, at least a few years younger than she was. The child-like appearance had not completely varnished from his physical.

She continued to her job of press a pie crust into an iron cast mould and sprinkled some flour on it.

"Will you give me your name, My Lady?"

She could hear the anticipation in his voice that expected an answer from her. Dusting the flour off her hands, she surveyed the young face in front of her.

"I suggest that you should return to the training ground, Esquire," she answered in a neutral tone.

"But you have not given me your name," he insisted.

She said nothing but frowned slightly at his persistence. It was not an everyday business that someone addressed her with infatuation. Moriel would have handled this better.

"You should go _before_ your Marshal finds you."

This time she inserted a hint of warning and irritation in her voice, hoping the young man would catch it. But no, he had other ideas.

"It is still early. I would rather enjoy my time with a woman of refined beauty. One such as you, my Lady."

His honeyed words failed to impress her. She shook her head. With a stern expression, she said coldly, "Thank you for your compliment."

"You are truly a strange woman – responding to praise with such ice in your voice."

She chose to ignore him. But he stood closer, resting an elbow on her worktable and shifting his weight on one foot.

"Suits yourself, Esquire."

She turned around and shovelled the bilberry pies into the roaring oven. She reached for a bellow and pushed some air into the fire pit.

"Your hair is so dark like the mane of the dark meares. What a shame that it is covered with ashes and dusts. You should not be working in the kitchen. You are an Ambassador of Gondor. Have you been mistreated, my Lady?"

"Watch your tongue, young man," she warned. She did not like the idea that he was devising. Edoras had treated her very well.

"There's nothing in life I enjoy quite so much as being threatened by a beautiful woman."

"If you hold any high regard for your own well-being, I suggest you should stop now and go to meet your comrades."

Éomer was standing at the door to the kitchen. He had observed and listened to their conversation for a good while. The feeling of rage was slowly growing into his skin, filling his blood and swirling like a red tide within him, rising to his chest. His breaths became harsh and shallow, his hands unconsciously curling into fists at his sides, itching to swing out and put a dent in the wall beside him. He felt his eyes were turning an even darker shade of green as he continued to observe. The unhidden affectations and continuous attempts of infatuation. He stretched his lips to keep himself from speaking. His mind was whirling with thoughts that did not succeed in calming himself much. His teeth clenched and if it had been possible, his eyes would have seared holes through the person in front of him. He couldn't stand the sight of this. He disliked it. Very much. He had no reason to but he did.

He stepped in the kitchen and cleared his throat and spoke, "I believe your lunch break is finished, Esquire!"

Lothíriel gasped at the sudden presence of Éomer in the kitchen. There was an inevitable warning in his voice and his tone reminded her very much of that of her father's senior commander when he caught some young ruthless soldiers drinking while on duty.

"No, Sergeant, it is still early. And, I am still hungry."

Assuming it was his Sergeant speaking, the young esquire did not even bother to look back, playing with a slicing knife in his hand.

Éomer's gaze hardened. Lothíriel thought he now bore the likeliness of the personification of a angry swirling thunderstorm.

"If so, perhaps you would be happy to see your buttock served on a platter?" The words came out slow and with increasing emphasis on each as they left his mouth. It was painful to maintain the neutrality in his voice.

The young Rohír stopped in horror after registering that voice for the second time. He turned slowly around with a mixture of guilt and fear on his face. The knife fell and clanked loudly next to his feet. His face paled and he was lost of words.

"You are late for your session."

If only voice could kill, Lothíriel believed the young man would have died many times already.

"I am sorry, my Lord."

"Are you waiting for an invitation?"

"I will take my leave now."

Still appalled by the situation, the young rider found his feet suddenly weak. His slow movement was fraying Éomer's patience rather quickly. Before he could torch the frightened young man down to his bones with his blazing glare, Erkenbrand appeared timely to stop the disaster escalating to a new level.

"Éomer King." The Lord of West-Mark greeted and turned around to question his pale-looking recruit. "Cúthbert! What are you doing here?"

"I….I…."

The poor soul could not find any words.

The old Marshal grabbed the young soldier by his shoulder and gave an apologetic nod to his King.

"Are you in charge of this beast?" Éomer lifted an eyebrow.

"He is mine to bear. He will be disciplined accordingly, my Lord."

Éomer remained wordless but Lothíriel saw anger flaring from his nostril as he sneered across his shoulder at the young esquire being dragged away from the kitchen. The kitchen was sort of busy today, she thought. Too many uninvited guests. Too much eventful moments.

When they were both gone, he returned his glance on her. She could tell something was on his mind from that begrudged look on his face. She could see his wheels of fume turning. He went around the worktop and stepped in front of her, very close.

His mouth began to form the words his mind was screaming. "What are you doing? Not getting enough attention?" His voice was dark and the acid was practically dripping from the corners of his mouth.

"I didn't take this job to get noticed."

His throng of unjustified and aggravated response was now making sense to her. He was jealous, though he tried not to show it for jealousy dislikes the world to know it. She struggled to fight back a grin as an unknown joy crept over her, filling her with momentary courage to go against him.

"Try not to look so excited."

Anger had not ceased from his voice.

"I am not excited, my Lord."

Her response came with a barely suppressed laugh. She needed to make full use of this precious moment.

"You look happy."

"I can assure that it is not happiness that I have derived."

"Then, what have you derived from your empirical judgement?"

"The sound of _possessive_ nature dripping - if that helps to explain your behaviour." She still fought against the overflowing joy within from leaking out.

He frowned at her words. His nostril still flared.

"I don't have to explain myself to you. Second, that sound you hear is the ice cracking underneath your feet."

"If you must insist it that way, I honestly have no other response to it except asking you a question."

"What question?" he probed, lifting an eyebrow.

She finished the last pie she was working on. After placing it in the oven, she turned around and cleaned off her hands with her apron before taking it off. She stared closely at him, grinning.

"Why do you sound like a _jealous_ husband?"

And there was no ice on the kitchen floor...

* * *

><p>A month or more after the kitchen incident.<p>

Edoras.

Happiness was always short-lived. More than one month after her joyful kitchen event which she still found very amusing every day, a messenger came to Edoras, carrying three letters from Dol Amroth. There was one from Imrahil to Éomer. One from Elphir to the Lord of the Mark as well. The final letter was for her.

Her fingers slid through the red royal sign of Dol Amroth. Uneasiness grew inside her. The writing on the envelop belonged her second brother's. Erchirion won't write unless there was a matter of urgency. Breaking the seal with a small knife, she unfolded the letter. There were lines and lines of neat writings of Erchirion.

_To my beloved sister,_

_May this letter find you in good health, safe and unharmed._

_It was the first Yule without you in Dol Amroth. I have missed your presence dearly. _

_The situation Belfalas remains within grip of control. There is a constant battle between the farmers, fishermen and the Guild of Tradesmen. Father has been taking matters in his hands personally. We should see peace restored for a while.  
><em>

_There is one issue which I believe Father would not have mentioned to you and I think it is necessary that it should be brought to your attention. _

_At the last meeting with King Elessar and the council of the United Kingdom, it has been brought up a few times that the King has the clear intention of finding a queen for Lord Éomer. Suggestions have been made and would be disclosed to Lord Éomer at the wedding of his sister, Lady Éowyn to Lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, this midsummer._

_**Finding a queen for Lord Éomer**_. She felt a tremendous weight on her heart, her chest grew tight and her hands trembled uncontrollably. Her knuckles whitened.

Taking a deep breath to brave herself, she continued reading.

_I hope my words before my departure have signalled sufficient warning to you, to awake you from the impossible fantasy that you might have weaved through the course of your stay in Edoras. Should Lord Éomer agree to the suggestion of King Elessar, it would be wise for you to leave Rohan for your role as a diplomat would appear conflicting to that of the Queen._

_Please forgive me. I wish not to break the news in this matter. It is, however, in my opinion that it is for your best interest to learn about it before it comes as a grave surprise. I hope you have not forgotten my words._

_Think of yourself and of us, in love, and farewell._

_Erchirion_

Her grip on the letter grew weak. The letter swayed in the air and fell silently onto the floor.

How could she have forgotten herself? Forgotten the words that her brother told her. And that man was going to have a queen and that queen would never be her. What was she doing to herself, basking in the silly joy ascended from his jealousy? It was stupid.

She stared blankly at the window. She needed to lock her feeling in a dungeon, clamp her heart on a wheel and annihilate both.

This was dinner time now. Dining in Meduseld – something she had grown used to and fell in love within such a short time became the moment she always wanted to escape. She would prefer to hide in her own little cottage or her study in the orphanage. She could not bring herself to see Éomer knowing the cruel truth that someone else would take the seat next to him. Tonight, she chose to sit next to Gamling.

Laughter and stories filled the usual table conversation. She was a deaf listener. Usually she would laugh and poke at the men but right now she felt extremely uncomfortable.

"I cannot do this," Lothíriel whispered into her plate, to herself, so low that no one could hear. Her steak sat there untouched, grown cold now, a thin film of grease congealing beneath them on the plate.

She looked at them and felt ill. She pushed away from the table.

"Are you feeling unwell, my Lady?" Gamling asked.

"I don't feel hungry, Gamling," she answered weakly.

"You have scarcely touched your food, my Lady. You should at least try."

That earned a lifted eyebrow from Éomer. She cast a very quick glimpse on him and could not tell if he was concerned at all.

"Does the food not suit your taste?" He finally asked, looking at her untouched plate.

"No. The food is fine. I just seem to have lost my appetite tonight. May I be excused, my Lord?" she recited stiffly.

He only gave a brief nod.

Before anyone else tried to keep her, she bolted for the doors as Gamling stood baffling about her unusual behaviour.

The next morning, she sent words that she was unwell and claimed absence from the morning council. Much to her relief, no questions were asked. The rest of the days followed similar pattern with possible excuses that she could come up with. When they supped, she decided to sit a few tables from him. But there was one habit that she could not shake off. She always waited in Meduseld for him and his men to return from patrolling. She would always wait no matter how late it was. Until that day she decided not to wait anymore.

* * *

><p><em>Until that day she decided not to wait anymore.<em>

The lullaby rang in the wintry night. He pushed the timber door open. The lounge was empty. The children were already in bed. He followed the mellifluous singing.

From the ajar door, he saw her kissing one of the children and blowing off the candles. When she came to the door, their eyes met. For a moment, he thought the elements of surprise flashed in her eyes but they quickly died down before he could be certain of it. She gestured him to stay quiet and slowly closed the door behind her.

"Have you been trying to avoid me?"Grabbing her by her upper arm, he pulled her into the lounge.

His life had always been sufficient with keeping his land and his people safe. Social and personal interchanges never made to his priority. But the changes crept in gradually. His unfavorable impressions of her ceased. The months which passed so eventfully only increased the sense of mutual dependence between them. She never missed his morning council and showed her capability by not holding back her opinions and opposing his ideas which she deemed inappropriate. It became a common sight for his council to witness to their quarrelsome discussion. It carried out for months. They understood each other more and the clash of words took a milder turn. Expecting her presence every morning became a solid habit that he did not realise. He did not know it, but his nature was being softened, deepened, and enriched by these deep and unwonted experiences.

Then her regular attendance at the morning council became less frequent, until her absence became too evident to him that she was at her every attempt of avoiding him.

There was something between them that he could almost visualize, but still could not quite pull into focus. Something he tried to ache and reach for, but could not quite touch. He could not understand but could not ignore it either. The same went for his rage. It gnawed all his thoughts.

"Why are you not attending the council anymore?" Furrowing his brows, his glare was scorching her.

"I try to remember my _place_," she replied in a low tone.

She was worried the cache of her heart would surface under his blazing eyes. Uprooting the feeling she had for him proved difficult. It only drove him closer to her.

He cupped her face and held her up again. His calloused thumb trailed along her jaw line. He could tell she was lying.

"Is that the best you can come up with? What happens to your capable tongue?"

His blazing dark eyes stared straight into her grey ones.

"Brevity is the soul of wit as I have been constantly reminded," she made every effort to turn her face away, refusing to look at him.

"Does that include the intent of avoiding me?"

He used his massive build to his advantage and kept pushing her, forcing her to retreat to a corner.

Trapped. She was forced to look up and meet him. His eyes made her uneasy.

"If you must insist on this topic, we should talk somewhere else. The children are sleeping."

"I prefer to settle it right now _and_ right here. Does that trouble you?" he insisted, his eyes inspecting her face, up and down it went several times.

Under the mystifying flickers torchlight, her irises reflected shades of different intensities. Like the impression they always bore, they looked remarkably hollow and deep tonight – dark voids that devoured his sensibility.

He was very close to her. They were a finger-width away from touching each other at their noses. She could smell him, his earthy scent that mingled with sweat. He just came back from patrolling his land with his éored and was expecting her to be present. He growled only to step in Meduseld and found that dishes for him and his men had been prepared and laid, she was nowhere to be seen. She always had dined with them and she would always wait for him. He had had enough. Nameless anger grew and escalated quickly in his chest as he stormed his way out of The Golden Hall and darted towards the orphanage. He knew he would find her there.

The frown between his brows grew into a scowl. He was upset at her. She knew by looking at the twitch of his brows. Pretentious did not come naturally to him. His face spoke what his heart felt. If only he understood it.

"Why have you come?" She asked wearily, trying hard to suppress the agony in her voice.

All kinds of vicissitude she experienced in the last few months failed to strengthen her immunity against him.

The tension between them was too much for her to defy.

"I…."

He saw the bitter twitch around the corner of her lips. His heart softened. He squeezed his eyes and stepped closer. She could feel his warm toned frame pressing against her. His warm breaths were blowing on her face and neck. His hand was still cupping her chin. He studied her minutely, taking in every detail of her face. Her skin took the colour of gold sheen under the dim light. His coarse thumb found its way to her pallid lips, he pressed and rubbed them gently, tracing along its contour, leaving a cold, tingly trail. For some reasons they appeared extremely aphrodisiac to him tonight. He could not stop feeling them with his thumb. She blinked. Her heart was beating erratically at his touch. Her lips parted subconsciously gasping for more air. Feeling invited, he leaned forward.

He kissed her.

A kiss is a lovely trick, designed by nature, to stop speech when words become superfluous.

Her lips were soft and warm like mulled wine. Her taste was gratifying. He felt his body burning raw beneath his clothes. His blood surged. His other arm coiled around her slender waist to bring the distance between them to non-existent. Sliding his hand from her silky jaw line down to her neck, it left a tinkling path on her skin.

Her heart was beating wildly. Her mind was sailing along the sea of dark. His rough beard grazed on her chin. All by itself, her fingers glided along his arms, feeling the irregular texture of the hardened leather and suede along their length, until they reached his shoulders and up to his neck. She caressed his bearded face with great fondness.

Encouraged by her reaction, his fingers slipped beneath the collar of her wool robe, unfastening the knobs. The night air was chilly on her bare skin. She shivered, and gooseflesh covered her.

"Lothíriel…" He whispered in her ear.

He broke his lips off hers and slid along her jaw line. His desire dripped more with every trail and deepened madly when he reached her throat. Her skin was smooth and silky. The salty taste drove his rationale aside, his hand grabbed the fabric on her shoulder and his fingers pulled her robe back, unveiling flesh of velvety just above her breast. His tongue grew greedier as it left a track of burning marks on her skin.

"Éo...mer.." A soft moan escaped from her mouth and echoed in his ears, delivering a husky and low tone.

His kiss became fiercer and kept demanding more. His hands glided on her ribs, creeping slowly upwards. She could feel the gradual erupting fervour from his desire. It terrified her to think what might follow next.

It was a battle between her devious heart and her mind. The remaining rationale in her mind was shouting that it was madness. It was not right. It was not supposed to happen. She should not have allowed it to happen. She knew she must stop it before they reached the state of no return.

"Stop.." her voice trembled as she begged. It almost came out as a whisper.

He brushed his lips for the last time against her swollen ones and finally rested his weight on her exposed collarbone, breathing in more of her scent. It was feminine and familiar, yet hauntingly, almost maddeningly elusive. It smelled like a memory; something he knew and longed for, but could barely comprehend why.

His heavy breaths sent warm breeze flowing on her neckline as he exhaled.

"I must go."

She pushed him away. Gathering her robe tighter around her neck, she went bolting for the door.

His iron grip held on one of her wrists.

Her steps halted.

"Lothíriel, I…."

Catching his breaths, he knew not what to say.

She felt a lump in her throat and thickening in her chest that won't go away. Mist crept into her eyes and welled up like spring waters, blurring her vision. She had risked emotional hurt when she allowed herself to dwell in his compassion. Her heart was bruised and sore with bleeding pain. She turned to him.

He saw the glittering moisture in her eyes.

"What else do you want from me? You have seen it _that_ night with your very eyes that I could not leave you yet you can't give me what I seek. Do you know how hard it has been to keep fighting against my own heart? To tell myself every sleepless night again and again that I should not continue to fall for you. Why won't you let me go? I have done everything I could, trying to part my heart and mind from you. I have never asked anything from you. How far do you still want to push me, Éomer? If you still have some mercy within you, do not give me anymore false hope. It brings nothing but misery. " Her voice was haunted with overflowing despair. She pleaded as the liquid trailed along her cheeks and glistened. The taste of salt intensified in her mouth.

"I am sorry."

It was all he could offer.

Finally, his grip on her loosened.

She turned and left.

Brushing off the stinging liquid off her cheeks, she hastened her steps to her cottage. She went for her bed and buried her head in a pillow and cried out aloud soundlessly. Moisture burst and gushed again.

She knew the devastating fact that they were not meant to be. It hurt too much to finally come to admit the complete truth.

A broken heart is a soul in torment with emotions which have neither control nor cure.

She knew it now.

**TBC**

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><p><strong><span>Footnotes:<span>**

_**Mægen**_: feminine name. She is a retired Meduseld cook. Means _**strong**_

_**Cúthbert**_: masculine name. He is an esquire of Erkenbrand. Means **_wise guardian_**

Lothíriel has always known that she is not meant to be queen. Yet when you are in love you cannot help to wish that one day false hope becomes reality.

Our Éomer, on the other hand, is capable with horses and wars but when it comes to emotions, I think he is still quite inexperienced. There are many aspects that he cannot comprehend such as jealousy and anger when he finds out she is avoiding him.

Chapter 20: Their next breakthorough would be back to the first paragraph of Chapter 1 which ultimately leads to the worst turn of their relationship but all is not in vain, Gamling's suggestion to speak to Imrahil? Would Lothíriel leave Rohan?

I won't be updating for a week as I have an interview tomorrow and an important meeting end of this week. I hope some of the explored tension did satisfy the craving of some of you! And please review! I welcome any sort of reviews! :)

Stay tune and enjoy! ^^

_**#Writ of Shadows and Phantoms is brought to you proudly by Barwick's extra mature cheese.**_

_**_**Supplier for Yule Cheese-rolling Wake since Age of Brego**_**_

_**Produced according to our traditional recipe for more than ten generations!**_

_**Highly recommended by the Lord of the Riddermark  
><strong>_

_**Available at our store located now at Market Square, Edoras#**_


	20. of Searing and Enticement

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

_**Chapter 20: of Searing and Enticement**_

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><p>Gamling was discussing some light matters with the riders when Éomer summoned him to his study.<p>

"My Lord?"

He wanted to knock but found the door ajar and his king standing next to the window.

"Gamling, come in and close the door, if you would please," the young man turned around, full body.

Gamling could tell Éomer was frustrated. When he came back to Meduseld from the orphanage, he remained silent throughout the course of dinner and stayed as a deaf listener, not laughing at jokes or silly tales of his men. He also ate very little, less than half than his usual appetite. And, his signature frown seemed to settle on his face for the whole night.

Gamling pushed the door close and approached his King at the window.

"Are you well, my Lord? You did not eat much at dinner."

"I am, Gamling, I am. My appetite has been somewhat poor tonight."

His breath steamed with every word. Éomer dragged his eyes across the study.

"What troubles you tonight, my Lord?"

Éomer answered Gamling's question with a heavy, long sigh.

"Are there times that you think you've made a great mistake in your life."

A bitter smile touched Gamling's lips. "Many times. Too many times."

"I am not speaking that of war, Gamling. Life, life it is."

Éomer paced slowly around the room, hands behind his back. Heavy shadow deepened on his face.

Puzzle flashed across the face of the old rider. Life, yes, there were many mistakes too, some that he regretted and wished to he had to chance to correct them. And not all were mistakes. They were just situations that he handled poorly.

"We cannot undo mistakes but we can make an effort so that we don't repeat them in the future. But there are always times that are not necessary mistakes if corrections are made soon enough."

His last sentence earned Éomer's attention immediately. The young man lifted his gaze from the table to his adviser.

"What do you mean?"

Gamling had guessed something happened at the orphanage, something between his King and the Lady of Dol Amroth. The ambiguous air between them never actually left. It lingered. Sometimes it was lighter. Sometimes it deepened.

The unseen tension was almost visible to everyone in their close proximity when they were both present in the same place at the same time. Yes, nothing had actually left or eased. But that did not worry him. The only thing that worried him was what Éomer would do about it. Gamling knew he had no place to offer any advice; after all, this matter was becoming obviously, a _personal _issue of his King.

"May I speak frankly?"

"I never seem able to stop you, Gamling," his King grumbled slightly.

"Rules are dead but our hearts are alive. The harder you try to defy, the more resistance it brings, my Lord, for we cannot deny our own hearts."

He clapped Éomer's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

Éomer remained in deep thought for a moment. A frown knit between his brows.

He finally asked, "How soon can our courier leave to Dol Amroth?"

* * *

><p>Early March 3020 T.A.<p>

The morning sun penetrated the mass of snowdrops that covered the green, and fell on her upturned face. Her fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the young leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the early of spring.

Since the incident more than 2 weeks, Lothíriel had not spoken to Éomer. She stopped attending his council entirely. She would only spend enough time in the kitchen to prepare food but she won't dine with him anymore. It was a change that everyone noticed. But nobody dared to ask.

The children were busy cutting out paper dolls. They soon wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up some fabrics and clipping all the leaves off the snowdrops that were within reach.

She felt she needed some breather. Sitting on her grey mare, Silverwing, she greeted the gate guard and acknowledged that she would be out for a short ride. The weather was now mild enough to stay out door for a good few hours. But little did she know that nothing had prepared her for the incident to come of which she nearly met her end.

* * *

><p>Had it been a week? Or, longer? She could not recall. They travelled for long time. She was sure they had entered the Gap of Rohan, judging from the geographical features that she remembered from a map she found in the study of Meduseld.<p>

She was sore everywhere. Every joint on her body complained of exhaustion and ache. Her feet blistered from the heavy walking. The blisters burst and new ones grew. Travel dirt and dust dug into her skin and hair. She had not had a wash for long time. She could even smell her own stench.

Would the riders come to save them? Did the news reach Edoras? She did not know. She was hopeful for the first few days but the hope grew tinier and almost extinguished as they crossed River Isen and went northwards.

"I hope these briars do not tear your skin too deeply," said one of the enslaved Rohirrim women as she lent Lothíriel a hand when she nearly tripped over a twig.

She shook her head. "I am fine," she replied with a weak smile.

The cuts and scratches were nothing compared to the cruelty that these men, women and children had endured since they were captured. Bruises of old and new patched the visible skin of a young woman walking next to her. The man in front bore numerous whipped scars and wounds.

Lothíriel clenched her jaws and cursed under her breaths. She wished she could have done something or anything to set these people free. She really wished she could but there was nothing she could do. The rattling of shackles reminded her that her situation was no better than any of the captives. The cold and sharp edges of the iron bands bit into her wrists. The needles of rust left marks of darkened shades on her pale skin. From time to time, the ruffians would check her shackles to make sure they remained secure. She raised her hands and looked bitterly at them. It was impossible to break free of these iron tendrils.

They were not allowed to talk to each other much. She had to keep her communication as little as possible otherwise the other party would get a whip and she stayed unspoiled. It was not because she was a woman. She knew well that the chief of the outlaws, Meriun, his name was, wanted to use her as bait. Having her as a hostage meant a winning edge to them. She told them she was an Ambassador from Gondor and although they were highly suspicious of her, at the end they bought it.

A small hill laid in front of them. She guessed it must be Heathfells.

They were urged to move quicker taking a right turn. A valley came into sight with an ancient black tower. They reached the mouth of Nan Curunír - Valley of Saruman. Unearthly torches on the left clift marked the path to an entrance. It was a cave. Some of the captives who understood Dunlendish and told her that it was called the Pit of Iron. It used to be a dwelling of Orcs of Saruman. Now it was the main nest of these villains.

Salty sweat stung her earlobes. She had pulled her earrings off and dropped them at the mouth of Gap of Rohan and the slope of Heathfells. They were very small pieces; perhaps, nobody would even notice them when riding pass. But she could only hope.

As they descended into the cave, Lothíriel found there were even more captives. All the ones she had seen had been Rohirrim. The Dunlendings seemed to have quartered the two groups of slaves down here - one to work in the lower mines to extract ores and another in the forge to make weapons and armour. Some crypts lined along the snaky path. They were dug as the grave for those would fell under the devilry in this pit.

She was pushed into a heavily guarded cell with the rest of the captives. Her presence earned some low muttering among the already present. She looked around and saw a group of banged-up peasants looking at her. She heard them questioning who she was. She replied quickly in Rohirric and found out they were captured when the outlaws raided their village. Some spoke with a hint of hope in their voice, thinking it was a chance that their King would finally come to rescue them. Some grew less hopeful and thought they would not survive very long down there before their saviour arrived.

The straw on the floor stank of urine. There were no beds, no furniture and not even a bucket for slop. If allowed to rest, they slept on the cold stone floor. The Rohirrim men still remembered their courtesy – they would lay next to the door of the cell to make room for the women and children to sleep further in and also to protect them from any uninvited beating. Getting any food was blessing. But there was never enough to go around. They had to take turn to starve so that everyone could live.

There was a man called Édhere among the captives. He wore strange raiments, marking him as a person of some station. He told her he was only remaining member of the Snowbourn éored for most of them were either killed during the nightly raid more than one year ago or beaten to death whenever one of them became too ill or exhausted to work. Every now and often, Lothíriel heard horrible bellowing roars ahead and could only guess at what danger lurked behind the next turn. The Dunlendings enjoyed sowing the seeds of fear.

Whipping was a common sight in this pit. It seemed to amuse the Dunlendings to kill their captives this way.

"Perhaps, there is no spark of hope down here after all," Édhere said to her one day, despair in his voice.

"No, your King will come. He will come to save us all," she corrected him hastily though she could not find her words convincing enough to believe even for herself.

"My Lady, my will and strength would be at an end anytime soon. If what you said was true, why did he not come when the Dunlendings raided my village a year ago? Why has he not come all this time while we are held captive here?"

She had no answer to that.

Every day seemed longer, or at least it felt like it. She could not tell if it was night or day in these stygian depths.

Today, Édhere was dragged out of the cell in front of her very eyes. He had collapsed from exhaustion the day before. But the Dunlendings showed no pity.

The cracking of a whip echoed across the pit. She could not bear it any longer.

"Stop! Stop it! That is enough! You will kill him, you scum!" She ran to the gate and shouted. Her knuckles on the iron bar whitened.

"Wat we have here?"

One of the torturers came cross to her, bearing his rotten teeth.

She turned her head away, disgusted by his breaths but his hand was swifter than her and it caught her by her chin and held her still.

"Gondor woman, I see," he surveyed her closely. He turned to his men and shouted at them in Dunlendish. One tall man came to gate. The rattling noise of the keys sent tides of fear down her spine.

"What are you doing? Where are you taking me?" She tried to shake off their hands.

"We are going to show you sum of our Dunlendish hospitality, woman!"

She tried to move away from the gate but the grip on her chin was solid. Her eyes followed them as they tossed Édhere into the cell and dragged her out. Her fingers coiled on the iron gate eventually unwrapped.

In vapid listlessness, Édhere fluttered his lashes and saw the hazy image of Lothíriel being pulled away. He wanted to beg them to leave her and take him instead.

"Take…..me…."

He opened his lips to deliver his plead, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. He choked and watched helplessly as the figure of the dark-haired women disappeared to whatever fate awaiting her.

Lothíriel learnt from the very early stage that struggling was useless. These monsters were fuelled by resistance of their victims. The stronger it was, the heavier the punishment came.

The strong arms around her shoulders went loose and she was thrown onto a stone platform. She heard cries. Raising her gaze, there were women and children in the caged cells surrounding her.

A heavy hand flew at her throat, bearing her down on the stone slab again. _Damn, that hurts!_ She cursed under her breaths as the pain from the back of her head crawled through her skull.

"Wench!"

A sudden burning sensation scorched her face. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the grinning face of the wielder of the whip who cracked his toy on Édhere just before. She remembered his distorted face. They called him Tavu. He was the henchman of Meriun. If there was anything she could describe him - he was the emissary of evil of this pit. He would torture and abuse the poor souls and laughed his heart out until his victim was near death.

"T'is what Gondor woman makes of?"

She felt a copious bleeding from her nostril and corner of her lips. She raised her hand to stop the bleeding but the crimson liquid continued to flow down her arm, leaving a red trail from her palm to her sleeve.

He grinned at her, eyeing her from head to toe and back. There was a sinister look in his eyes that she did not like.

This time the hot burning landed on another side of her face.

"Truly a wench! Not a single hiss from your nose! I see why t'ey filt'y Horse-men agreed to keep you. T'ey like tough women, do t'ey not?"

He stared assessingly at her, which was somehow more disconcerting than his usual sneer.

"They will come and kill you. They will put a thousand spears through your wicked heart!"

She cursed at him.

"Will t'ey come? You t'ink t'ey would come to save you and t'ese pat'etic lot? Where were t'ey when we raided Snowbourn? Where were t'ey when we raped every woman, killed every child and burned every man to deat'h? And, if t'ey come, only deat'h awaits t'em."

"They will come and you will die horribly!"

"None can hope to stand against us!" he continued to vanquish her hope.

He licked the blade of his dagger and slid it on her swollen cheeks a few times, jerking it back and forth. The cold from the metal stung her reddened skin, sending waves of chill through her. A shrieking pain hit her scalp. He pulled her long braid up and sniffed it.

She felt sick at this disgusting sight.

His blade glided from her cheeks down to her neck, going along her shoulders and finally to the midsection of her braid, sawing through her mats with his dagger. A fistful of dark hair skittered across the paving stones.

Her long hair which extended below her waist moments ago, was now hanging loose just a less than a foot below her shoulders.

He picked up her cut braid and brushed it across her swollen face, wiping all the blood with it before passing it to one of his minions. He threw back his head and laughed, "I send t'is to t'e Horse-Lord. I sure it will please him."

Lothíriel felt rage tightened around her clamped jaw. Her eyes were hard and twitching.

"I would hate to leave you behind...alive but Chief said not to harm you."

He stepped forward and subjected her to close scrutiny.

"How shud I play t'is game? Blade or fire?"

One or the other, it was an unpleasant choice of evils – both blade and fire sounded a game of torment. Still, Lothíriel kept her lips tight only allowing her eyes to betray her rage.

"You don't seem to be afraid of blade. Fire t'en," he decided for her.

The watching women and children gaped in terror as they saw a red hot branding iron was lifted from a nearby brazier.

"Wulf, son of Freca, took t'is as a trophy when he claimed t'e throne in Edoras. His descendents never found a use for it….but I do."

At his words she suddenly felt as if a pint of dread washed down her neck. Her legs began trembling with wrath. Her grey pupils dilated and fear flooded every inch of her skin as she saw him lifting a glowing bright horseshoe and thrust it just a few inches away from her face back and forth, barely touching her. The warm air radiating from it was as malignant as its wielder.

"Turn her over!" He commanded.

His minions closed in and flipped her onto her stomach. They stretched her cuffed hands out.

From the corner of her eyes, she could see Tavu coming closer with the branding iron. Women and children began crying, screaming and shrieking, reaching their hands out, and begged to the Dunlendings for some mercy. A young girl fell on her knees and wept helplessly at the coming sight.

"Turn away! Turn the children away! Don't look! Turn away!"

For a moment she ceased to be sensible of the immediate danger as she continued to shout at the terrified Rohirrim in their tongue.

She felt a heavy load on her face. The unkempt and hairy face of her torturer came into sight.

He grabbed her loose locks and pulled her up.

"Wat a shame I could not mark t'is on your face or any visible parts. My Chief will not be happy. You are a token of worth but I will make sure to leave an unforgotten souvenir for t'e Horse-men."

His hoarse hand reached down to the collar behind her neck and pulled it down.

A chill of air met her exposed skin.

She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, clenching her teeth so tight that it hurt her jaws. The smell of hot iron lingered and whirled around her. She prepared and waited in the dark abyss for the worst to come. Sweat of dread dampened her skin. She could feel the fluttering of her heart as it raced in her chest. Fear whistled in her breath. She was afraid. Very afraid.

She heard the distinct sizzling sound of flesh baking on flame. Her body shook violently at the heat tearing her skin. Smell of cooked meat filled the cell as her body quenched the flame of the metal. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away. She could feel her blood boil and turn to steam beneath the weight of the branding iron. The pain was indescribable. It gnawed at her, throbbing and pulsing, from her shoulder into her spine, creeping into every single nerve.

She became exceedingly dizzy and faint. She could hear the cries and screams of women and children. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. When she looked around her, the image in front was hazy and swirling. She needed air. She was so frightened that she held her breaths and forgot to breathe. The pain peaked with every mouth of breath she inhaled.

Whilst every nerve of her body twitched, she turned her eyes to look at her executor.

Tavu shambled backward, grinning victoriously through his rotten teeth and a trail of smoke was smouldering from his cruel toy.

"T'row her back t'ere! See t'at she does not die so easily. She still has some use to us."

His men pulled her rudely off the platform and threw her into the nearby cell where the rest of the women and children were kept.

As soon as the Wild Men had left, the women rushed around her to assess her injury. Her body experienced a sudden deprivation of energy. She heard the women talking to her but did not have the strength to listen to what they said. Her eyelids were heavy and she felt herself sinking in a sea of dark waters where there was some imaginary peace, away from the cruel reality.

But no, she must not die. What fate could possibly be worse than to die on this dark pit.

* * *

><p>Helm's Deep.<p>

They rode hastily to Helm's Deep when Erkenbrand sent news of sighting a large company of outlaws passing the Ford of Isen a few days ago.

Just a week after sending a letter to Imrahil, Éomer was not expecting any major surprises.

But he was wrong.

He was in the midst of a discussion of the rebuild of East-fold settlement with his council when Hannor came charging up the stairs of Meduseld, requesting to see him immediately. At the sight of Hannor's pale face, Éomer knew something had gone ill.

Silverwing, Lothíriel's horse, came back without her but a young injured boy. He bore a swan-embossed belt in his hands. Éomer immediately recognised it. It was hers, the heirloom of the House of Adrahil. She always bore it no matter where she went. The dry blood stains on the beaten gold surface seemed red as searing fire.

The young boy, Ælfgar, was from Snowbourn. Most of his kin were taken captive and forced into slavery when the Dunlending outlaws raided his village almost a year ago. The huts were burned and livestock were slaughtered. The Dunlendings butchered those who opposed them and fed them to their wolves. And they bound the Rohirrim who were least capable physically or ill and burnt them in front of the rest of the survivors. The boy wept as he recalled his younger brother and his grandparents were among those who screamed as the fire melted their fleshes.

He told Éomer of his escape from his captors. The Dunlending host were moving only at night, avoiding to be sighted by the Rohirrim scouts. They often hid in abandoned pits or mines. He managed to escape when they were descending from West Emnet. Lothíriel found him unconscious near a small bush. But before they could ride back to Edoras, they were surrounded by the Dunlendings. She bargained for his life, offering herself as a hostage instead. She tried to convince them she was a diplomat from Gondor and Rohan would bend to any requests to have her safe. Of course, it was not true. She knew it and Éomer knew it too. It was no more than a gamble to save the boy's life and an opportunity to bring the news to Edoras. The chance of success was slim but she took the risk.

The outlaw chief did not buy her words at first until she offered her belt carrying the emblem of her House. Ælfgar wept as he recalled the Dunlending slapped her across her face with the belt. There were drops of blood dripping from it. He dared not look. Lothíriel whispered to him, telling him to reach Edoras and inform the King of this. He rode hard and fast, tears did not stop gushing down his cheeks as he remembered shamefully how cowardly he was, leaving a lady to take his place.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Éomer let out a heavy sigh. It had been almost three weeks now. There was no news. None of the patrols dispatched had seen anything. He grew more and more reckless every day. He forced himself to eat when he had not appetite at all. He had troubles sleeping at night. Every morning he hoped for some news from the scouts but they brought none.

He rose from his bed. Grabbing Gúthwinë, he headed to the Sword Hall.

"My Lord? You should be resting," Éothain caught him in the corridor.

"Rest? How can I rest?"

He could not close his eyes without the images of his people being tortured flashing in front of him. He could not stop himself from a moment without thinking the perils Lothíriel had brought onto herself. _Stupid woman! So foolish! _He cursed within. His instinct told him that she was alive but where was she?

There was anger in Éomer's voice. Éothain knew it better not to defy his King when this wrath was in him.

"What do you wish, my Lord, at this hour?"

"I am going to the Sword Hall. I can't sleep." He found his tone softer now. He resolved to keep his temper. It was not Éothain's fault that the situation eventuated to this stage.

His young Marshal nodded and followed his steps to the training hall.

The air was chill tonight. Éothain brought his arms around himself. The Sword Hall was not a popular place at Helm's Deep. Helm Hammerhand built it to train his riders and soldiers. It stood high with red and green tapestries hanging from the stone pillars. Since the War of the Ring began, there was less use of it as there was hardly any time to spare training in it. Most training was conducted outdoor and the Rohirrim learnt as they progressed with the daily dealing of wars.

"Éothain, have some wine and stay over there. I will be fine."

He gestured at a wine flagon on a table. Éothain had not had much sleep lately either. Whenever Éomer was awake, the young rider would follow him around after all he was his bodyguard.

Éothain emptied a glass of wine and leaned against a stone pillar. He faced himself away from Éomer in the shadow. It was not the first time since they arrived in Helm's Deep that Éomer vented his frustration in the Sword Hall. Perhaps it was wiser to let his King had some breathing space.

Flickering light touched and brushed on the grey wall of solid rock. The sharp sound of Gúthwinë unsheathing echoed in the dim. The air whiffled as the long blade whipped freely, warming the muscles of its wielder. It glittered under the silver moonlight channelling from the high-raised windows. Up and down it went. With each stroke, each slash and each thrust, it picked up in speed. The air whistled louder with each fierce swing, breaking the invisible enemy apart. Stance renewed, offence and defence alternating. The sword howled like its infuriated wielder.

Éomer inhaled and exhaled greedily and heavily, replenishing every mouth of lost air consumed by his sword. His hair webbed around his sweat-dampened face. He felt moisture dripping from his thick brows, stinging his eyes. He cursed and sheared his sword through the unseen in front of him.

Before he could finish his move, his hands stopped abruptly.

He could see Éothain standing in the dark behind the pillar with his hand ready on his sword.

There was something approaching them. It came from the corridor. Light steps but not as swift and wary as those of a swordman. The air changed too. The trace of fragrance was very faint but it was there.

Both Rohirrim locked their eyes on the entrance, expecting the person to make an appearance very soon.

The footsteps were increasingly louder.

Éomer shook his head very slightly, gesturing at Éothain to cloak himself in the shadow. He had a feeling that whatever that marched through that door came for him.

Least he expected a woman sailing into the Sword Hall. She was dressed in a piece of very light night gown. The enlongated shadow emphasized her curvy figure. She smiled flirtatiously and winked at him as she entered – an act of coquetry that most men would fall for. He knew that smile – she offered it the first time they met in Minas Tirith.

"What are you doing here, Moriel?"

His voice carried an unwelcoming tone. His eyes locked on her every move.

He had allowed her to follow his company to Helm's Deep after she begged to tag along, claiming that she was worried about her Lady.

For a moment, disappointment flashed across her face but it disappeared quickly. She would have thought he would be excited to see her. To see her especially when she had _prepared_ herself for him.

She looked at him with excessive admiration in her eyes. Her fingers slid across his chest, tingling his muscles. She knew she was an undeniable attraction. No man would be able to resist her when she made an effort. She tipped her toes, bringing herself high enough to survey his face, and blew her warm breaths on him.

"Lord Éomer," she whispered huskily in his ear, "can you not see why I am here?"

Éomer cast her with icy glare.

Unaware of the presence of Éothain behind the pillar, she continued her attempt at seducing his King. She brought her hands up to caress his unshaved face.

"You need to part from your sword from time to time, my Lord. There are other pleasures more exciting, more exhilarating than sword fighting."

"It is late. It is wise that you leave now and I can pardon your doing tonight," the Horse-Lord said with a downward twist at the corner of his lips.

"Don't be so cold, Éomer King. We are not strangers, are we?"

Éomer continued to observe her wordlessly. He had seen her manipulative nature when he was in Minas Tirith. It was not evitable for some but he noticed and so did most of his men. She had used her enticing appearance to gain advantages for herself. Since she arrived in Edoras with Lothíriel and Hannor, she tuned down her act significantly which he believed was mainly because his men were rather irresponsive to her.

"You have a body muscled like a maid's fantasy, my Lord. You are not only lickable, but also mountable. I can offer you anything you wish."

Éothain, hiding behind the pillar, felt his ears burning at those words. The woman made no attempt at all at hiding her lust.

"Leave now before I change my mind," he warned with rising irritation.

"I would love it if you change your mind."

Mistaking his meaning, she came in front of him and opened her sleeping silks and let them fall to the floor. She stepped closer and leaned herself completely onto him, coiling her hands around his neck like a snake.

"I can quench your flame and your thirst, my Lord."

Éomer let out a heavy and long breath.

Whilst Éothain, still cloaked in the shadow, knew that particular exhale was a warning before his King lost his last bit of patience but Moriel took it as an encouraging sign that he was losing his self-control.

She resumed her purpose. Her hands wandered on his body and crawled their way downwards along his abdomen. Before they could descend further, Moriel found both her hands in an iron grip.

Éomer's glare hardened. He pulled her hands up. His grip tightened enough to send a warning to her before he pushed her away. He should have read her thoughts given the casual concern she displayed over her missing Lady.

He turned around, grabbing an oil cloth and running it along the double-edged sword.

"Your presence is unwelcome here. What did you hope to accomplish, I wonder?"

She could not believe he rejected her. Pulling her gown around her, Moriel's face was a storm-cloud of embarrassment and consternation. She brought herself under control, but it was clearly an effort.

"Why? Why she? Not me? What does she have that I don't?"

Éomer slid Gúthwinë back into its red sheath.

"You imagine too much. Go back to your quarter."

"I am better than her! I know how to please you! I have everything that she cannot give you. She is nothing than a banished princess who spends her time rotting in the orphanage and knows little of men!"

Envious poison dripped from every corner of her mouth as she barked at him.

The Horse-Lord turned back to her. There was hard glittering in his eyes.

"Leave_. Now!_"

His loud words startled her.

She stared at him, her eyes incredulous. She opened her mouth, bearing her teeth before clasping her lips again. The taste of rejection was not something she was used to. Gathering the edge of her gown, she let out a disgusted snort and left.

Éothain emerged slowly from the shadow.

"Lord Éomer?"

Brushing the hair away from his face, he glimpsed at his young Marshal.

"Keep an eye on her."

* * *

><p>After the unpleasant exchange with Moriel, the next day was another test for Éomer.<p>

The gate guard reported a Dunlending messenger had been flagged down from the West. The Wild Man claimed he was there to deliver a message to the King of Rohan. He flagged at Gamling to bring the messenger forward. He thought he could handle the matter fairly without his emotions getting in the way but the effort was beyond him.

The rugged man carried a parcel in his hands.

Gamling, the only officer proficient in Dunlendish, stepped in as a translator.

"He says it is a gift from his Vice-Chief."

Gamling handed Éomer the rough-wrapped package.

"He also says….."

Gamling hesitated and exchanged a look with Éothain, who was standing next to him.

"He says what, Gamling?"

"….that you will find the gift…..pleasant."

He opened it and found a fistful tie of black hair, tangled with dry blood. It was her braid and was delivered as a sign of trophy. His green eyes widened. His face etched with rage. He rose from his seat and came in front of the messenger who grinned mockingly at him.

Without a word, he thrust, shovelling the messenger against a rock wall. He seized him by his neck. The poor soul let out a cry of pain but continued to babble in Dunlendish.

"My Lord!" Gamling jumped forward to calm his King. "If we kill him, we won't be able to save them. Spare this man and we could negotiate the lives of our people. "

"What is he saying, Gamling?"

"He is cursing us…that we will die miserably in the hands of his Lord…."

"This is a mocking challenge, not negotiation! These beasts do not negotiate!"

Éomer felt anger peaking inside him. His grip on the Dunlending messenger tightened. The shorter man, desperately gasping for air, scratched his hands around Éomer's arm trying to free himself.

"My Lord! You will kill him!"

Éomer let go off the choking man. He gestured at the guards, "Lock him in the underground prison."

Collecting his composure, he paced around the hall. Subconsciously his left hand went to rest on the hilt of Gúthwinë, images flashed fast like lightning in front of his eyes and there was a sharp pain in his head.

What was that? He wondered, frowning. His movement staggered for a few steps. The vision disappeared as quick as it came.

"Perhaps you should take some rest," Éothain offered. It was true. Éomer had not been resting much lately. And he slept really late last night.

"I am fine."

Éomer seated himself, trying to recall the momentary misfit in his mind just now. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. The images, first blurry now, were clear enough for him to remember. He saw a sparkling item among the grass, it might a stone or a gem but he was not sure. And there were mountains left and right. He knew those mountains well down to every peak and cliff.

"Gamling, did you say the messenger come from the West?"

"The scout said so. But the messenger said nothing when I asked him."

So that confirmed it.

"Send words to Marshal Erkenbrand. Have five hundred men ready. We ride out at first light tomorrow."

Éothain nodded and left to deliver the order.

Confused by Éomer's behaviour, Gamling eyed his King questioningly.

"Gamling, time to sharpen your sword."

"Where _exactly_ are we heading, my Lord?"

That place brought back painful memories. His cousin and many of his countrymen fell there. Éomer turned to his adviser, placing a hand on Gamling's shoulder and said with a bitter twist.

"Gap of Rohan."

**TBC**

**How does Éomer rescue his men and women? How does this lead to a sour turn between him and Lothíriel?**

* * *

><p><strong>Footnotes:<strong>

**Gap of Rohan** map is based on the website: lotr(DOT)wikia(DOT)com(SLASH)wiki(SLASH)Gap_of_Rohan

**Heathfells** is based on the map above. **Pit of Iron**, located north-east of Healthfells and at the mouth of Nan Curunír, used to be the mining and armoury pits of the White-hand Orcs and Uruk-hais. Dunlending outlaws now claim lordship over it. (Please refer to the link above for the exact locations)

**Ælfgar**: (_Old English name_) **Ælf** means** Elf**; **gar** means **spear**. Originating from the burnt down village Snowbourn, He is a captive rescued by Lothíriel.

**Édhere**: (_Old English name_) **Éd** means **blessed**, also written as Éad; **here** means **army**. He is a rider of the éored of Snowbourn.

**Moriel**: Lothíriel's maid, her reaction to Éomer - refer to Chapter 2. Oh yeah, her role does not stop here.

**Dunlending names** (i.e. Meriun and Tavu) are borrowed from the MMORPG Lord of the Rings Online.

Dunlendish language: Tolkien has not mentioned much about it except they do speak common tongue but with poor pronounciation and structure.

**Currency system** of Middle-earth: smallest unit is copper and largest is gold. 100 copper is 1 silver. 1000 silver is 1 gold.

**Branding**: Used a tool to mark criminal or means of torture. The description of branding pain is based on observation of frying a piece of steak on a very hot frying pan. The first sense that hits is the sizzling sound, then the smell and of course the pains come together with everything. I actually dug into a medical paper of patients explaining the feeling of scorching their flesh.

**Correction**: It should be Erkenbrand (not Elfhelm) that is the Marshal of the West-mark. It has now been corrected accordingly.

* * *

><p><strong>Acknowledgement of reviews:<strong>

Once again, thank you to all the reviewers and readers. Without them I will not have the motivation to continue my story. A big embrace for all! I still welcome any sort of reviews, particularly on my grammatical mistakes!

**angelic-bitch**: What a pen name you have there! LOL! Thank you :)

**b5delenn**: Éomer is certainly making an effort. I mean sending a letter to Dol Amroth. Then again, I assumed that Éomer is literated. He is the nephew of Théoden after all. Théoden is brought up in Minas Tirith - he is proficient in both Westron and Sindarin. We will see if Éomer inherits any of that quality! (PS: Thank you! My interview went well, I got the offer!)

**BrightWatcher**: Cheese oh cheese! I usually think old cheese as if it has undergone a long period of maturing, giving it a hard crust outside. So when you cut it, it is still fresh within (not mouldy! =p)

**C**: Thank you! Consider signing up a Fanfic account? :D

**Glory Bee**: There will be some intimate moments after this chapter, I promise! Oh did that I say it out by accident?

**LadyAvi**: Speaking out is better than keeping silent about it! :)

**Quills in blooed red ink**: Thank you! I have been asking openly for someone to volunteer as a beta, but no luck, man! Perhaps you would like to offer your service?

**Rogue's Queen**: The bracelet removal would have to come after this chapter! She will be so cold and cruel once she is determined. The cheese, hmm, let's say 1 wheel is 1 kg. 1 kg costs 2 silver 12 copper, so your order of 5 kgs will cost 10 silver and 60 copper please!

**Sic Vita Est**: I hope you have enjoyed this chapter too! :)

**solar1**: Hope you like this update as well! :)

**Talia119**: I don't think he is that thick anymore after the last chapter! Like I mentioned before, positive emotions are not something he is used to. So we will see how he learns to deal with it.

* * *

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	21. Against the Rising Tides

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

_**Chapter 21: Against the Rising Tides  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Hope is your survival<strong>

**A captive path I lead**

**No matter where you go I will find you**

**I will find you**

* * *

><p>As the host trooped down the plains of Westfold nearing the Gap of Rohan, Éomer's apprehensions grew. He translated his fears into a scowl on his face, yet they were there all the same, growing with every league they crossed. For the past weeks, anxiety had been a constant company during the day and restlessness at nights.<p>

The sun soared above their heads. It was already midday. His men were taking their break. Another half day, they would reach the Fords of Isen. His incisive glare scanned across the land and there was no sign of any sort. He peered into a distance over the narrow mouth between the mountains. There was a spark there. Something sparkling was there. There was a terrifying similarity about the sight in front of him – the vision he had yesterday.

He leaped Firefoot forward before Éothain could stop him.

"Lord Éomer!"

Firefoot sprinted down the earth. Patches of mud flew into the air under its hooves.

Éomer vaulted from his steed. His booted steps came in front of a tiny object. He kneeled down and his gloved hand dug into the damp soil. Unwrapping the content in his palm, particles of smut slid away and unmasked a glowing aureate hoop circling an engraved dawn-rose stone. His brows drew closer and his lips clamped tight in a thin line.

It was one of hers. Like her belt, it was one of those very few lavish items that she allowed herself to carry. In a way, she was very similar to Éowyn. His sister never liked jewelleries much either.

He had always said to her that she was stupid. He knew she wasn't. She was just reckless with no regards for her own being. No, she was not stupid indeed. She left them a sign to follow.

Dropping the earring into his leather pouch, he turned around to his men and shouted in a loud deep voice, "We are going to cross River-watch. Make ready!"

Gamling kicked his charge forward to meet his King.

"My Lord, it would be too risky to gallop in the valley. We are inviting ourselves into their traps if we are seen."

"I know, Gamling. We will camp in the bushes and trees next to the Ford at night. I did not go through Pelennor Field and Black Gate only to be spotted by a Dunlending scout!" he said in a disgusted tone.

"Do you think they are hiding in Isengard?"

"The Ents are guarding Isengard. They might go as far as the valley but they won't step into it. Ælfgar says they hide in pits and mines. There has to be some around somewhere. We will start from south."

Éomer jumped back on Firefoot and steered it around.

"Send the scouts and unearth every stone! Let this be the last time that our people shed their blood on this piece of cursed land!"

Éomer rode in front of his column, beneath the flapping green banner of the Mark.

They crossed River-watch warily, moving southward.

Gamling took his éored and raced ahead to screen their movements and scout the way, going as far as Dol Baran. The reports the riders brought back after a few hours later did little to reassure Éomer. There was nothing. Nothing at all. No news was disturbing news.

"Where are you?" he muttered to himself, grimace in his voice.

* * *

><p>She dreamed an old memory, of her parents and her brothers, of the days before the injustice changed her life.<p>

In her dream, she saw her parents riding down the sandy shore of Dol Amroth with her and her brothers. She was very young, sitting in front of her mother. Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos were all galloping around her in their beige ponies. The sea sang in her ears. The gulls were flapping their white wings above them. It was a pleasant day. The breeze was warm.

Her father went to the fisherman and brought back a big fish. It was a pink salmon. He said they would have it for dinner. She turned around and heard the giggles of her brothers. They dismounted from their ponies and had gone into the waters to splash each other wet.

Her mother's sweet laughter rang beside her ears. She remembered laughing with her, shouting at her silly brothers. But the years leeched her memories of her mother even though she had vowed never to forget her face. In the dream, she reached out to catch her mother but she was only shadow, merely a grey wraith made of mist.

The mist disappeared. Everything was gone. It was just the sea and the wind. She was all alone again.

A loud whiffling noise came close to her left ear. She saw a long object hurling ahead of her. She ran toward it. It was a spear, nailing on a piece of cloth. The tides came and washed, spreading the cloth. And she saw it – the white horse upon the green. A flow of scarlet petals bubbled from the tip of the spear spreading its crimson across the green, as red as blood.

"My Lady," a voice spoke in Rohirric. Deep and rich it was. It was a man.

"Who are you?" she turned around, searching for the source.

"My Lady," a figure echoed from the dark. Or, it wasn't a man.

Groaning, Lothíriel opened her eyes.

"My Lady?" A shadow stood over her.

A dull throb of pain shot up from her back. She felt weak and her head seemed heavy. For a moment, Lothíriel ceased to be sensible of her locality. She tried to push her body upright before another wave of piercing pain screamed at her.

"My Lady, how are you feeling?"

Face of a Rohír woman came into view. She was the one who pulled Lothíriel when she nearly tripped over a twig when they entered the Gap of Rohan. Lothíriel remembered she was called Wynflaéth.

"How long have I been…"

She rubbed her forehead, trying to knock some sense into herself.

"Three days."

Three days. It felt like a dream so short and unreal.

The woman held a cup to Lothíriel's lips.

"You should drink, my Lady. It is only water. You have not had any fluid. You would be thirsty."

Instinctively, Lothíriel licked her lips. Wynflaéth was right. Her lips were parched and cracked. She took the cup and drank it eagerly. The water tasted sweet as honey.

"Thank you."

"You should rest, my Lady. Your wound is nasty. We tried to wrap a bandage around you. It is only time before it gets infected," Wynflaéth told her and removed the cup from her.

It was true. There was no medicine in this place. No herbs either and she started to feel a little feverish. Damn, this was not a good sign.

"How is Édhere? Any news about him?" She came to a sudden recall of her poor friend.

"He is fine, my Lady. The lads are taking care of him."

"Good, that is very good."

Lothíriel let out a sigh of relief. At least Édhere was still alive.

"We will all die here, we will not, my Lady?" The older woman could not help the grimace in her voice.

Cruel truth: they won't survive long here.

"We all have to stay alive regardless. Help is on the way, Wynflaéth."

"Nobody knows we are here."

"Your King knows. He knows."

It was that indefinable feeling again. He was coming to save them. She knew it from within. She just knew it.

She took the hands of her takecarer and gave them a firm squeeze before saying with iron certainty, "Spread the words quietly. Tell everyone that their King will come for them. Do not despair. Stay alive and aid will come."

Her low muttering with Wynflaéth did not go unnoticed. Though not able to understand their language, the two Dunlending guards came up to them and push them apart from each other. They towered over Lothíriel on the floor. They came in front of her and pulled her to her feet.

Lothíriel knew something was wrong. Peaceful moments were rare in this pit.

"Wait, please, what are you doing? She is injured. Please!" Wynflaéth came onto her kneels, begging for them to let the Gondorian woman go.

"No news from t'e Horse-men! She a liar! She is no diplom't! T'ere is no hope for you maggots!" said of the Dunlending guards before he kicked Wynflaéth off his feet.

"Remember my words, Wynflaéth!" Lothíriel turned her head around to take a final look at the older woman.

"No! Please!"

Wynflaéth's voice trailed off behind Lothíriel as the guards dragged her away.

"Where are you taking me?"

She was very weak, her feet had not strength in them, but she still found the need intimidate her captors.

She licked the blood of the corner of her lips when her words returned her with a slap.

"Your end," said one of the guards, smirking.

Whilst the Rohirrim watched in fear and horror, the rest of the Dunlendings laughed cruelly as Lothíriel was being hauled along the snaky path.

The pain was back again. Her wound must have been torn open. She could feel warm liquid dampening the bandage on her back. They continued to pull her around until they came to the entrance of the pit. There Tavu stood proud and tall, waiting for her.

He grabbed her by her hair. She was forced to stand with very little strength in her legs.

"See t'ere?"

He pulled her outside, forcing her to look at the direction he pointed at. She squeezed her eyes, blinded by the sunlight absent for the past few weeks. Then she saw it. It was a shallow stream - the Fords of Isen.

"T'e Horse-men will likely camp over t'ere, in t'e bushes and trees. But none of t'em will see t'e l'ght tomorrow. I have ev'ry trap, ev'ry beast, ev'ry arrow laid ready to welcome t'em. T'at is w'ere t'ey will meet t'eir deaths."

Her heart sank. Tactically, that place would be the ideal camping site but given the demographic nature, it would also serve as an excellent location for ambush. Knowing Éomer, she was almost certain that he would have picked the bushes to cover his trail. Dread coiled her like a snake.

Masking her fear, she forced herself to look at the wicked man next to her. With gathered wits, she cursed him, "No, it will be your end tonight. You _will_ die."

The Dunlending berserker shovelled her back against the cave wall, his coarse hands clamped around her throat, tightening.

She felt the claws of death on her. The pressure was strong enough to almost snap her neck off. But she just kept looking at him with her cold eyes.

"Gondor whore! You just burnt off t'e last bit of mercy in me. I will make sure t'e Horse-Lord sees your bloated body b'fore his own."

Tavu turned to his two guards and said deliberately in Westron, "Take her up to t'e vall'y." And he turned back to her and grinned evilly, "You are not afraid of blade and fire did not kill you. I will let water ends your fate."

His two guards grabbed her by her shackled hands and pulled her down the slope, heading north into Nan Curunír where the river ran deep.

The Ford. The ambush. The trap. How could she warn them.

She screamed in her heart.

_Éomer!_

What was that?

He thought he heard someone calling him. He looked around and found nobody close enough to whisper.

"Lord Éomer?"

"Yes, Gamling?"

"We are ready to move to the Ford."

They were now at Brontrig, an abandoned Dunleding village, south west of Healthfells. The search brought nothing. There were no mines or pits. Not even a fox hole.

Éomer peered across the land, beyond the slope of Healthfell. The Fords of Isen laid just ahead. That eerie feeling crept into his skin, numbing his scalp. His stomach contracted.

"No, Gamling. Perhaps it is better that we check Forthbrond and we will camp at the southern feet of Misty Moutain tonight."

His adviser looked at him with a puzzled face.

"I thought the Fords of Isen would be the perfect location?"

"I have a feeling that something amiss is there, Gamling. Perhaps it is wise not to take the risk" he said, frowning.

He could not explain it. He did not even understand why he was thinking this way.

"If Forthbrond is clear, that will leave one place unsearched."

Éomer squeezed his eyes at the direction of Isengard.

The night came with unwelcome rain. By the time they finished searching Forthbrond, it was falling harder, stinging the eyes and drumming against the ground. Black waters were rushing down from the valley, flooding the overly shallow banks of River Isen.

They still found no pits, mines or outlaws.

Every minute ticked past weighed his heart even more. He had to find them tonight. He had to find _her_.

"Lord Éomer!"

Éothain came back with his scouts. Judging from his excited tone, Éomer became slightly hopeful.

"We might have found their nest. There is a slope just before the valley. I am certain that I have see torches lighting outside the entrance."

Éomer unrolled the map and spread it on a table.

"Where exactly is this cave, Éothain?"

"Here," the young Marshal pointed at a location on the map, at the mouth of Nan Curunir.

"That damned place served as the secondary forges of Saruman. No normal man would dwell there," Éomer looked at the map with narrow eyes and turned around to his bodyguard, "we must plan our next move, and quickly, so their victory will be short-lived."

Éothain stood up and gestured to announce the order.

"Éothain, there is no room for failure tonight," his King reminded him.

Whilst the Rohirrim prepared themselves for the rescue mission, Lothíriel was forced to face her worst fear.

She stood on a high cliff. She studied the rocky edge for a moment. The river was a long, dizzying distance below. The waters beneath were raging with wild rapids. Elphir used to say that she swam like a fish, but even a fish might have trouble in this river. She knew she would not survive against the treacherous flow. Her hands were still cuffed and her legs were weak.

She kept looking back and forth between the river and the Dunlendings in front of her. Together the outlaws unsheathed their swords and closed in around her.

She never thought it could end like this. Blade or water – both led to death. But blades would guarantee a certain death. So, she took her chance. She lifted her sleeve and bit the edge and tore it off. Her weak steps staggered to the very edge of the cliff. She let her final step slid. The wind went against her descending body.

She heard a short sharp woof, as if someone had blown in her ears. Bubbling noise shielded the upper world from her.

_She struggled as she fell off the cliff into the quick stream. The cold liquid with much pleasure began to invade her senses, drowning her. _

_She held her breath. _

_The desperate need for air grew dire and overthrew her will. A gust of air bubbled violently out of her mouth and nostril. Her fight against the invading liquid was revenged by the turbulent ciele of river water biting into her nose, flooding her throat and piercing into her lungs._

_She choked._

_She kicked her legs and swung her arms vigorously. She had little strength left. No food since the days ago, ten or eleven or more maybe, she could no longer remember._

_With the very final piece of her strength, she tried to open her eyes in search for the forlorn hope. Then she saw a tiny strip of cloth streaming in the water, down it went. She wished that the message would have gone through before it was too late for her._

_The very warmth of her blood seemed to fade from the inside. It must reach them. It must reach them before the abyss took her. Her vision blurred. Her thoughts drifted. Parchments of memories were dancing in front of her sea-grey eyes. The pieces of yesterdays still seemed vivid and fresh. She fought with her arms and legs but none in which she could find leverage. Her body continued to burn asking for need for air and she got none._

_How she wished it could have ended differently but it was too late._

_She could feel the root of her hair starting to grow numb. The devoid of sensation spread from her ears, creeping into her head. She let out a whisper then darkness engulfed her._

* * *

><p>"Forth Eorlingas!"<p>

The assault began with surprised attacks. Being an Orc-hunter certainly paid off. The ability to surround your enemies in the dark and charge at them when they hear no sound of hooves or neighs is an advantage belongs solely to the Horse-folks of Rohan. The siege at the guards at the entrance went as easy as hurling a spear at an Orc.

The weak defence in the cave turned the tides quickly to Éomer's favour. By the time the hiding outlaws came out from the Ford, trying to save their kinsmen, they were besieged when Gamling led two hundreds men charging from behind.

But not all were good news. Éomer checked all the rescued captives one by one. He scanned over and over again. She was not here. The flame of rekindled hope started dying down within him.

"Hahaha! You are lookin' for th't Gondor wench, are you, Horse-Lord?"

Éomer turned around and saw the Dunlending whom he just pierced a spear through his chest.

Tavu choked, blood flowing out from his mouth. His ego brought the destruction on himself. He underestimated his opponent and that turned everything ill against him. But he felt victorious still. That woman must be dead.

"Where is she?" Éomer shouted, clawing for his sword, "tell me and I will grant you a quick death!"

"T'at is a pity, Horse-Lord. She is not alive anymore!"

"Where is she?"

Éomer, vexed by the speech, pressed Gúthwinë against the Dunlending's throat.

"All shall look upon Tavu and despair! Haha! She is dead! She is..de…ad.."

The man laughed. A spill of blood gushed out from his mouth and he went limp.

Anguished, he pushed the dead man away. He felt the world was collapsing on him. She could not be dead. How could she? Just when things were changing for good.

"Lord Éomer!" Erkenbrand came rushing to him. "One of the women says that she saw someone took Lady Lothíriel to the river, up the valley just less than an hour ago!

"Where?" Éomer shook the shoulders of his Marshal.

"Up in the valley, my Lord!"

"Tell Stán to ride back with the rest. Take your éored, Marshal. We are going down the river!"

Éomer pushed his feet into the stirrups and wheeled Firefoot down the slope. Gamling, Éothain and the Royal Guards, Erkebrand and his éored followed tightly behind.

They dismounted above the Ford and went on foot up stream. Anxiety and dread coiled him. The fast flowing water did little to calm his writhing mind.

The accursed water soaked through his boots. His feet slipped under the sinking rocky riverbed. The water was cold. He could feel the chill biting into his bones. He kept pushing himself forward. Then something caught his eyes. A white fish maybe. It was blurry and trapped between the rocks. He dashed forward and grabbed it.

It was a dagger in his heart when he saw it. Her sleeve, the unmistaken weaving of blue and white, the colours of Dol Amroth. A veil of fear gloomed above him. He had to hurry. Death might be close upon her heels.

"Move upstream quick!" He shouted again to remind his men.

His grip on Gúthwinë tightened. A calling force drew him to move forward. It felt like an invisible hand was waving at him, showing him the way.

He was startled for a moment and his hand let free of his sword. It disappeared.

Completely overwhelmed, he tried to convince himself. He placed his hand on Gúthwinë and the call came again. He followed it. His legs went deeper into the water. The flow was very rapid.

His eyes subjected every surrounding with upmost detail until a hazy reflection of black and white behind a huge rock came into view.

Her hair spread like a banner of darkness. She seemed still and stagnant in an almost vertical position.

**_No! _**His heart screamed.

"Lothíriel!"

He pushed himself into the deepening water, crawled over the rocks, and grasped her into his arms. He tapped her face. It felt cold and drained of the colour of blood.

Dragging her onto the riverbank, Éomer laid her flat and pulled his sword out, aiming the tip of Gúthwinë on the shackles. Gritting his teeth he pushed his blade down and the iron bands shattered like glass.

He took her abraded wrist in his hands. Her pulse was very weak.

He shouted at his Marshal, "Erkenbrand!"

All the men rushed towards him.

Éomer watched absent-mindedly as his West-mark Marshal leaned over Lothíriel and listened to her breathing. His knees gave way and he landed hard on the ground.

Éothain pulled his King aside trying to calm him, allowing some space for Erkenbrand to treat the unconscious woman. Erkenbrand was the few Rohirrim who knew water well enough. He might be able to save her.

"She will be fine!"

Éothain found his words neither comforting nor convincing at all. It terrified him to see his friend so pale and so lifeless. She looked almost dead.

"Someone gets me a piece of dry cloth or whatever!"

Erkenbrand barked at his men. A few riders came forward offering their wool cloaks.

Accepting the green fabrics, Erkenbrand looked up at his King and said, "I will have to roll her over on a horseback. Might be able to get some water out. And, no offence, my Lord, she needs to be out of these damp clothes! She is losing more heat if she stays."

Éomer made a loud whistle and Firefoot came galloping. He pulled his steed closer.

"Tell me what I can do."

Éothain had urged all the rest of the riders to move further away while Erkenbrand wrapped a few layers of dry cloaks around Lothíriel and Éomer stretched his hands beneath, tearing away her soaked robe.

"Her pulse is getting weaker, we have to be quick!" said Erkenbrand as he tightened the fabrics around the young woman.

He placed her stomach-down on Firefoot and began patting her back. Firefoot neighed nervously but did not move.

Each clap landed with increasing force. The Marshal of the West-mark cursed and kept patting.

Éomer locked his eyes on the motion of Erkenbrand's palm. Up and down it went. Everything seemed so slow. He did not hear Éothain talking to him. He heard nothing.

It was so silent.

Then, a little noise.

A very faint sloshing of liquid leaked from her mouth.

Erkenbrand wrapped his fingers around her neck. "Her pulse is slightly stronger. We need to get her back to Helm's Deep immediately before the chill takes her."

Éomer jumped onto Firefoot and turned Lothíriel over, sitting her in front of him. He could hear her faint breathing. Almost unnoticeable.

"Éothain, take your men. We ride through the night."

On the gallop back to Helm's Deep, Éomer never felt time was so short in his life.

* * *

><p>Hannor stood impatiently at a doorway of Helm's Deep. Just before dawn, Éomer returned with a very unconscious Lothíriel in his arms. He rushed into the Healing Chamber. Hannor followed closely. He could a glimpse of Lothíriel. She looked frightening pale and her lips were almost purple. There was no sign that she was an alive being at all.<p>

The healers had been with her for long time. Maids were darting back and forth with hot water and medical supplies. Hannor did not know it was morning already.

"Have they said anything?"

Éomer, now changed into dry clothes, emerged from the other end of the corridor and asked the Gondorian boy.

Hannor shook his head. He thought Éomer took a sudden toll of exhaustion. There were dark shades beneath his eyes. His face seemed more lined than usual.

"My Lord?" The door to the Healing Chamber opened and an elder healer stepped out.

She came in front of Éomer. Her face grimaced. "Could you come please, my Lord?"

But she stopped Hannor when he motioned to follow. "You are too young, my boy."

Éomer entered the chamber with the elder woman. He could see bandages unrolled and there were medical tools and jars of salves scattered on the table.

"What is this about?"

"Lady Lothíriel is very feverish. And I believe it is because of this," the healer went closer to Lothíriel, who was placed to rest stomach-down, she unfolded the blanket, revealing the disfigured blackened flesh beneath.

His heart clutched as if a claw just tightened around it.

"Her wound is infected," said the elder healer.

The horseshoe shape dark mark stood out as an awful haunting sight on her pale shoulder. The tissue surrounding it was blanched and swollen. Bloody blisters dotted along the scalded wound. There were also some dry and leathery patches struggled to remain attached.

The healer finished fastening the bandage, pulled her patient's shirt over the shoulder and turned to her King. She could see anger flashed in his eyes and he clamped his teeth so tightly that his facial muscle buckled up behind his jaw.

"I have applied some salves. She will stay unconscious. Her fever runs high and there will be waves of shock. She will shiver, feeling hot and cold at the same time. She…she… will need to pull through tonight…."

The healer could not bring herself to continue but simply nodded at her King and left.

Hannor heard everything from door. How could this happen? She was his only family. He felt tears stinging his eyes. He rubbed them away rudely, determined not to cry but dam of moisture burst down his cheeks. He slid down onto the floor and pulled his legs to his chest, weeping silently.

Éomer tried to swallow down his rage. His hands unconsciously curled into fists at his sides, itching to swing out and put a dent in the wall beside him.

He leaned closer to her, questioning himself from within. How could he have let this happen?

She smelled of heavy spirits and herbal ointment. He ran his knuckles along her pale face. There were lacerations on her forehead. Her cheeks, which were now burning hot, carried a pink tint among maroon bruises left by her captors.

Her breaths were short and swallow as if she struggled to breath.

"Lothíriel," he called her softly.

She laid still, irresponsive.

He kissed her on the forehead and pulled the covers to her neck and wheeled his feet around to the door.

A curled up body wept next to the door.

"Hannor."

He pulled the dark-haired boy into his arms.

The youngster sobbed silently, his tears trailing down, wetting the shoulder of the Horse-Lord.

Éomer looked up at the wooden wall and forced a lump down his throat, trying hard to fight back the contagiously dreadful emotions.

He drew a deep breath.

"Hannor," he said patting the boy's head, "I need you to do one thing for me."

"Yes, Lord Éomer," the boy now comforted found his voice.

"You will be Lady Lothíriel's caretaker from this moment forth. Nobody should come near her other than you and the healers."

Hannor looked lost at his words.

"Just you and the healers. Do you hear me?" he repeated his emphasis.

"Yes."

"Stay with her. I shall return later."

* * *

><p>"How many?"<p>

Gamling saw his King thumping down the hall to the throne room. He hurried his steps and joined Éomer.

"Erkenbrand reported a hundred and seven all together. Sixty one men, thirty eight women and the rest are children."

"Only?"

His King stopped and turned around to look at him.

"That is all we saved from the pit, my Lord," Gamling grimaced, "they are being tended and taken care of as we speak."

"Are they all from Snowbourn?"

"All of them."

"A hundred and seven only! Béma's mercy!" Éomer cursed.

Snowbourn, though not as popular as Edoras or Aldburg, was still a populated village with a few hundred habitants.

The young Rohír pushed his brows tighter, weaving his supposingly young forehead with lines of frustration.

"Have you spoken to any of them?"

"Soon, this evening, my Lord."

"Make it so. See to each need."

* * *

><p>That day was exhausting and difficult.<p>

By the time, Éomer and Gamling finished settling the needs of the rescued Rohirrims, it was already past supping time.

He ate just enough to stop Erkenbrand nagging at him. Éomer's heavy steps climbed the stoned corridor leading to the healing chamber where Lothíriel was resting. Outside the fortified keep, the wind howled and rain swirled, loud and chaotic; but inside the thick stone walls it was still warm and quiet. Too quiet like a dead man's grave.

He reached in front of the door and stood for a moment. His eyes landed on the bronze knob. He let out a long breath and took courage from that. He straightened and entered the room.

Hannor was there beside her bed. He had been there, the whole day since he told him to stay with her. Not for a moment had he left Lothíriel's side. The maids had brought him his meals there, and some salves as well, and a small bed to rest on, though he had scarcely laid in it at all.

Hannor raised onto his feet immediately, a damp cloth in his hands, when he saw Éomer from the opening door but sat down again when motioned to do so.

"How is she?"

"Her fever has not gone but not worsened either. She has not stirred at all. I have been feeding her the honey, water and herb mixture. The healers say it sustains life."

The young boy paused for a while and asked Éomer an impossible question.

"She will be fine, won't she?"

"Hannor," he took the boy's hands and shook his head, "I don't know."

He bit his lips and his chin twitched. The orphan threw his arms around Éomer's neck and sobbed. "I don't want to lose her."

"Shhhhh.." Éomer gave the boy a tight hug. "I will take care of her for tonight. You should go and get some sleep."

"But I want to stay."

"I will send someone to fetch you first thing tomorrow morning. It is no use to me if you fall ill too. Go and get some rest," he urged.

He pushed the boy to the door and closed it after the boy's small figure completely disappeared into end of the corridor.

He crossed the room again and looked down at the bed when Lothíriel lay.

Perhaps it was his illusion that he thought she looked better than when he left her this morning. Her face was less pale and colours were returning to her lips.

Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

"Lothíriel," he called softly.

Her eyelids fluttered. She let out a small breath.

He sat next to her and put a hand on her head to feel her heat. It was chilled with damp. She was breaking out in cold sweat. He lifted her head to rest her on his lap.

_Her fever runs high and there will be waves of shock. She will shiver, feeling hot and cold at the same time. She…she… will need to pull through tonight._ He remembered the words of the healer from this morning.

Taking the damp towel that Hannor left, he dipped it into the warm water, dried and wiped it gently across her forehead. His other hand took her hand in his to hold and he began rocking her slightly as he tried to choke back a sob.

He brushed her hair away from her face and saw patches of livid scattered on it. Every bump, every bruise reminded him of the torment her wilfulness brought upon herself and of his haunting failure at keeping her safe. He bit his lip to fight back the rising anger from within.

Her body twitched. She whimpered a cry of pain. She curled up.

He pulled her into an embrace. He could feel her body trembling in his arms. Instinctively, she gathered herself around the warmth.

"Lothíriel," he whispered again, slipping his fingers through her midnight hair.

"É..o…mer…"

It was a very weak reply, almost inaudible. He was not certain if she was calling him in her sleep or she knew he was there. He cared no more.

"Co….ld…"

She dug herself deeper in his arms, searching for more warmth on his chest. Her fingers clutched on his shirt.

He tightened his arms around her, rubbing her back carefully not to touch her wound. For a moment it seemed to have eased her. But it was short-lived and she began trembling in his arms again.

"….co..ld…"

Another whimper. The shivering worsened.

"Shhhh…." He soothed her.

He straightened himself up and pulled off his shirt. He wrapped her back in his arms, laying her on his bare chest; and pulled the blanket over them both, hoping his body heat would be sufficient for her.

She sank into him, locking her arms around him and greedily seeking the heat from his body.

He slid his fingers along her face, jaw line, down to her neck; he wanted to feel her being alive, his hand finally rested on her heart to feel the beats beneath and slowly and gently he rocked her back and forth.

He breathed her hair, calling her name quietly in her ears.

Her tensed body began to relax slightly. After a long moment, she calmed and deep breaths returned to her chest.

He came to admit the truth that he could no longer deny or escape.

That she meant dearly to him.

**TBC**

**More intimate moments to follow in next chapter! And it leads to a sour turn?  
><strong>

**Gamling's past unfolds?**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Footnote:<span> **

**_Wynflaéth_:** (_Old English, feminine name_) Fair and beautiful.

_**The drowning process**_: (as per Wikipedia) When one starts drowning, the larynx or the vocal cords in the throat constrict and seal the air tube. This prevents water from entering the lungs. Because of this laryngospasm, water enters the stomach in the initial phase of drowning and very little water enters the lungs. Unfortunately, this can interfere with air entering the lungs, too. In most victims, the laryngospasm relaxes some time after unconsciousness and water can enter the lungs causing a "wet drowning". However, about 10-15% of victims maintain this seal until cardiac is called "dry drowning", as no water enters the lungs. In forensic pathology, water in the lungs indicates that the victim was still alive at the point of submersion. Absence of water in the lungs may be either a dry drowning or indicates a death before submersion. The lack of leg movement, upright position, inability to talk or keep the mouth consistently above water, and (upon attempting to reach the victim) the absence of expected rescue-directed actions, are evidence of the instinctive drowning response.

According to a recorded document, ancient/Medieval way of saving a drowned unconscious victim (if he/she is pulled from the water soon enough) includes hanging him/her upside down, applying sufficient force to the stomach/chest to push the liquid out. So I pushed it a little further by utilising the horses as the platform.

_**Biological reaction to fight against an infected wound**_: Based on commonly known symptoms.

_**Body heat**_: Best form of heating you can get - personal experience when my boy was born with a low body temperature (34C), my midwife told me to wrap him beneath my clothes and it brought his temperature back to normal. And nothing is more soothing that an embrace when you need it!

**Acknowledgements of reviews**:

Once again a big thank for all who have continued to support this story. Registered or anon, all are welcome to drop your 20 cent!

**BrightWatcher**: Feel free to comment whenever you can :) Life is a learning curve! 2 pints of honeybrew will cost you 20 silver. Cash on delivery please! ;)

**b5delenn**: Yeah, I always feel he is an educated man. I don't think Morwen (the grandma) would leave her children uneducated. My LOTRO main character is a Guardian of Dale! We have just entered Gap of Rohan. The next expansion is coming this Fall, themed "Riders of Rohan!"

**Mary07**: Oh thank you! I hope you like what you have read so far!

**Talia119**: Just a conspiracy. The medieval, scouting paths are often defined and allocated to designated individual. Such can only leak from within.

**LadyAvi**: It is indeed a twist and I feel bunch of my hair fallen off just writing this chapter!

**xmmara**: Thank you! And the fact that they try to defy their feelings is just so my way :D

**Cherrie**: Thanks for liking it :D Hope you like this update too!

**Rogue's Queen**: I think that cheese is fairly priced. =p If only you have seen the price of an Elven dress you will think food is so cheap in Middle-earth! Certificate of authenticity? Like a wax seal on Parma Ham? :D

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><p><strong><em>Stay tuned and we will be back shortly after this! [Enter commecials]<em>**

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**_Drop in for a quick quote NOW!_**


	22. Reclaiming the Past

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

_**Chapter 22: Reclaiming the Past**_

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><p><strong>Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven<strong>

* * *

><p>He stretched his back and massaged his own shoulders. Gamling was tired. These few days had been long and fatiguing, and he was no longer as young as he had been. He watched the Royal Guards set off to fetch more provisions and clothing for the captured Rohirrim that they rescued just a day ago. He had come around to reassure that everyone had a bed to sleep tonight. Many saw him and gave him a nod. He recognised a few faces but not many. He had met many people in his life. They came and went. Some left a deeper impression than the rest.<p>

His wrinkled blue eyes scanned across the hall again. Tonight this would be the temporary sleeping quarters for the people of Snowbourn. A few women were busy laying the sheets around when one of them caught his attention.

That hair.

That doubled-knotted hair.

He rubbed his eyes rudely thinking it was an illusion of fatigue.

But no. It was still there.

"Wynflaéth!"

His voice rang across the busy hall and drowned all the other mutterings.

He was shocked that he still remembered her name. It was since many years that he last called her name. Wynflaéth - he thought he would never have a chance to call again. He thought he had lost her.

"Wynflaéth!"

At his second call, the woman stopped and dropped whatever in her hands. She turned around very slowly and looked at him with her widened cerulean eyes. "Gamling?"

His steps hurried and stopped in front of her. The same face that carried the beauty that had aged over the past missing years.

He left a lump in his chest. His hands went up and only to hang in mid air. _She was alive_.

"Wynflaéth!" He exclaimed again in wonderment.

* * *

><p>She thought she heard someone called her name. But she thought it must her illusion for she had been told that the owner of that voice died many years ago.<p>

"Wynflaéth!"

And it came again and echoed in her mind.

"_It could not be!"_ She heard her own muttering.

The fabrics fell off from her matured hands. The urge to turn around took a while to register in her brain. She just looked at him wordless and shocked. Then realisation struck her.

It was him.

The man whom she thought was dead many years ago.

The man whom she though would never return.

"Gamling?"

She watched as he came approaching him with the similar and identifiable gaits that beat beneath his booted steps.

Memories of her bent and splintered heart rushed back as she recalled the day he left wearing the same armour. Yes, she was young back then. So young, she had not even passed her twentieth summer and he was ten years ahead of her. Many were opposing them, telling her he was too old for her. She proved them wrong at the beginning. They had good years together. Two maybe? It was before the day he answered the summon at the door. And fifteen years just went past like a blink. Fifteen years!

A wave of emotions began to shower over her. Words were stuck at her throat. Moist crept silently into her eyes. She felt her mouth twitching as she forced herself to show a weak smile.

She never blamed him. They were people of Rohan and he was a man of Rohan. He had taken his oaths to aid his King. When the call came, he must go.

He smiled back at her.

"Wynflaéth," he called softly, lifting his hand to brush away her tangled hair.

"Gamling!" she cried out and furled her arms around his neck, feeling the familiar sting in her nose as tears pushed against her will. His calling of her name rattled and echoed in her brain.

Her numb fingers meandered towards his lined face. She looked at him with brimming tears, and in the absolute silence of her own world, she heard herself whispering, "This is not real."

"Wynflaéth…"

His word shot through her ears, penetrated her brain and stiffened her spin.

She intimately knew the too familiar lump in her throat. The hollow hole erroded by the years of thinking that he was dead and that he was not returning to her, finally sealed.

"They told me you were killed in the raids," she caressed his face with great fondness, "many years ago. They said the Dunlendings…killed….."

Her voice turned into a series of disheartening sobs when she recalled the days that she clung to hope until being told the bad news that every family wished would never come. She knew exactly how each day felt after that, so agonising.

"I survived," he said softly."I went back to Westfold to look for you but you were not there. Nobody knew where you had gone."

"I left after the knock came on the door. I went to Snowbourn to stay with my elderly aunt. The first year of being alone was very hard, but the fear of being alone for my lifetime would have killed me. I could not pretend that you never existed or to wipe you out of my life when I breathed the air of every morning without you. So I left..."

Whenever she heard the mustering sound of the horn, gooseflesh crept over her and a lump would fill her throat. She would hide in her corner with hands covering her ears, not wanting to hear each blow again. There were sleepless nights she would take his old clothes out beneath her bed and sniffled them, reminding herself how he smelled like, just to pretend that he was there.

"I am here and I will never leave again."

It struck her that even after so many years how desperate she wanted to hear those words.

She leaned herself against his chest, eyes closed and hands wrapped tightly around him.

She did not know how to hug him enough to last a lifetime or to make up for all those lost years but right now she just wanted to feel his presence and listen to his beating heart.

* * *

><p>It was dawn. The morning light shone through the high windows.<p>

Éomer was leaving the healer chamber where Lothíriel had been resting when Gamling came to him with a woman following behind. Not many knew that he would spend his night time here while their Gondorian diplomat still laid unconscious. Hannor stayed with her during the day when Éomer had his daily business to deal with.

"My Lord."

They both curtsied at Éomer.

"How is Lady Lothíriel?" Gamling asked with a concern look.

A frown touched Éomer's brows but disappeared as quick as it appeared. Many had already asked him that question and he had repeating the same answer, especially when it was not an optimistic one.

"She is still unconscious," Éomer replied. He felt some tightness around his jaw.

"It took three days," the woman behind Gamling inserted.

Éomer's brows furrowed.

"I beg your pardon, my Lady?"

"I am sorry, Sire," Gamling extended his arm to gesture at the woman to come forward. "I would like you to meet my wife, Wynflaéth," said his advisor.

Surprise flashed across Éomer's face and his brows knitted tighter._ Gamling had a wife? _ Éomer could not recall Gamling never mentioned about it. He could not remember his advisor taking a bride either, or seeing Wynflaéth for all those years he spent at Meduseld.

Seemingly to read all the questions in Éomer's mind, Gamling said, "We were married before I came to Edoras….seventeenth years ago….we have not always been together. She…..she is one of the captives we saved two nights ago, my Lord."

"I did not mean to be impolite, Gamling," Éomer said with an apologetic tone, noticing the regret in Gamling's voice.

_But there are always times that are not necessary mistakes if corrections are made soon enough._ Gamling's words a month ago rang again in his mind. He now understood what his advisor meant.

"My Lord, when Lady Lothíriel was…." Wynflaéth hesitated and realised it was difficult to revisit the mental image, so she swallowed the unfinished sentence and tried to express it in a more careful manner, "when they tortured her, she was unconscious for three days. I was with her at that time. She might not be awake until tomorrow or the day after."

"Thank you," the King said softly.

"My Lord! She is a very brave woman. Our fate stood upon a precarious edge, but her arrival had brought us hope when our doom was nigh!" Wynflaéth hastened to speak her thoughts out.

Éomer chewed his lip and grimaced at her words. Brave? Hope? How infelicitous they sounded to him! They might have sounded like compliments if the situation had been different but now they etched his ears just like the branding mark on her back. He would very much prefer Lothíriel to be a timid and cowardly woman if he knew it would come to this.

"Hannor is with her. If you wish to see her, you may," he sighed, "but don't expect any response."

The sadness in his eyes did not go unnoticed. Gamling exchanged a look with his lady.

"I am going for breakfast before attending the council," Éomer announced dully, "I will see you later."

He wheeled his feet and headed at the direction of the dining hall.

"My Lord!"

He heard the heavy footsteps closing behind him. He turned around and raised a hand to stop the older rider. "Stay, Gamling." Éomer gave a quick glimpse behind Gamling's shoulder before saying to him, "Your lady deserves your company more than anyone else right now. Everyone else, everything else can wait. Your King can wait." He laid a hand on Gamling's shoulder. "I will see you later."

Éomer gave his friend a smile before resuming his steps.

Gamling watched wordlessly at the disappearing figure of his young King. Éomer looked so tired, so drained. Gamling's heart ached for the young man. Éomer was never good at expressing himself. His whole life circled around deaths: Death of his father, his mother, his cousin, his uncle and his people. Just when he thought they were moving forward, uninvited malice coursed from every corner. His King had not even passed his thirtieth summer.

Wynflaéth came next to him and took his hand in hers. Resting her head on her husband shoulder, she said fondly, "he will be a good king."

He clasped her hand with another of his.

"Yes."

He heard himself declared loudly inside. He would stand by him, his King, regardless what the future would hold.

* * *

><p>She was in that same dream again, of her parents and her brothers, of their peaceful days together.<p>

They rode down the white shore of Dol Amroth. She sat on her horse, admiring at her three brothers galloping fast and fierce on the plain of sand. The foamy waves splashed against the fine shiny dust beneath. The sea was as blue as the sky above.

Her mother's sweet laughter rang in the warm breeze. She saw her elegant figure sitting on a white horse a few steps ahead. She saw her loose-braided dark hair that danced like an out-stretched wings of raven.

But her mother was getting further and further away from her. Lothíriel leaped her steed forward, racing against the reducing figure of her mother.

"Naneth!" she cried as the charging air brushed against her cheeks.

Her horse came to an abrupt halt when the white mount in front stopped. Horror filled her eyes when her mother turned around. It was a grey wraith made of mist. Her mother's face was leeched. She could not recognise that sunken hollow eyes looking at her.

But her hope lit up when the grey mist precipitated into a more vivid form. Her mother was here again. She had not changed. Her eyes, her nose, her lips and her hair. Every feature on her face was exactly as Lothíriel remembered.

"Lothíriel…." She called her.

"Naneth!" Tears burned her cheeks and her lips twitched bitterly. Lothíriel reached a hand out but she could not feel her mother.

"Go back…."Her mother urged.

"No! I don't want you to leave again. Stay! Please!" She whimpered and begged.

"Go back…..this is not your place."

The grey mist swirled around her, enveloping her with a familiar scent.

"No…" she protested.

"Go back…..your time has not come….."

"Naneth….."

"Back to the light….dan nan galad, Iellig…..dan nan galad…."

The voice faded.

The grey mists shuddered and swirled around her and ripped away like a veil and Lothíriel saw a young face, a boy with black hair like hers, and she knew him from somewhere, from Minas Tirith or Edoras, yes, that was it, both Minas Tirith and Edoras, they were there, she remembered him now, and then she realized that she was in a bed, surrounded by high stone walls, and the black-haired boy dropped a basin of water to shatter on the floor and ran down the hallway, shouting, "She's awake! She's awake! She's awake!"

She touched her left shoulder. Her skin was still burning beneath her fingers but there was no fever. She could feel the bandage around it. It was still sore with needling pain. But there was no more blood, no more smell of burnt flesh. She felt weak and a little dizzy. She rubbed her forehead. Shock hit her as her trembling fingers felt the some bumps on her face. It still hurt a little when she pressed on them. Yes, she had been slapped. Back in the Pit of Iron.

A group of women burst into her room, breathless probably from running all the way from wherever they came from. They had bandages, basins and porches in their hands. They were healers. The boy emerged from behind the tall women as breathless as they were. His face was a blend of tears whilst joy touched his lips. Lothíriel looked up calmly and smiled.

"Hannor."

* * *

><p>They fed her porridge and water. They dressed her wound and renewed her bandage. They changed her into fresh raiment and put a thick hooded wool cloak around her, saying she must not take a chill now. She felt strength returning to her slowly. She could move her legs and turn to sit at the edge of the bed.<p>

"We are almost finished, my Lady," smiled one of the healers.

She touched her face again, feeling the little bumps.

"May I have a mirror please?" she asked.

The tending healer hesitated and exchanged a look with her company. Reluctantly they passed a mirror to her.

Lothíriel lifted the bronze-framed to her face. She surveyed her reflection with great attention. There was discolouration of purple and black on her face, dominantly on her cheeks and around her right eyes. A laceration cut cross her forehead just below her hairline. She dropped the mirror in disgust and turned her head away. She looked ugly. The livid patches on her face were hideous. She never cared so much about her appearance but somehow now she did.

"My Lord!"

They said in unison.

The formality in greeting took her by surprise. All the healers turned and bowed at the door. There was no need to guess who was there, who else would deserve such an upholding greeting tone.

"We are done here, my Lord."

"Thank you."

His voice rang.

She heard the receding steps of the healers. There were just two of them in the room now.

"My Lord."

She greeted him in a formal and distant tone, and turned her head away, pulling the hood to cover her face.

She felt a weight sinking next to her. She lowered her face even more. No, she did not want him to see her like this. It was an offensive image to look at.

"Lothíriel," he called softly, raising a hand to touch her face.

"No! Don't!" she slapped his hand away and clasped her hood closer, pulling herself backwards.

He appeared taken aback by her response, a little hurt maybe.

"I look horrible…"

"No, you don't."

His voice was gentle and kind.

She remained silent and clung on her hood tightly. She did not want show her face.

"Look at me, Lothíriel," his hand reached for her chin, cupping it lightly with his thumb and index finger, "please."

Her heart softened at his words. She turned herself reluctantly to meet him. His fingers steered her chin up and pushed the hood back behind her. She felt his knuckles gliding on her skin, along her jaw line.

There was sadness and regret in his eyes. But he also looked at her with great fondness. It was almost lovely.

"I'm sorry."

She closed her eyes and clamped her lips tight upon hearing his words. The horrified images flashed in her mind. After a long moment, her hand slid up to touch his and she finally found the courage to say admittedly without shedding a tear, "It is not your fault…..I have been too reckless…."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and brought her into his embrace.

His scent and warmth enveloped her. It was so calmingly familiar as if she had dwelled in it for a long time. She snuggled against him unconsciously, listening to his heartbeats.

He brushed his face against her hair and said slowly and bitterly, "It is. I promised your father that I would keep you safe. I've failed."

She heard the guilt and regret in his voice. She gazed up at him and ran her fingers tenderly on his bearded face. "Please don't blame yourself on this. No one but myself is responsible-"

Her words stopped when he pressed a hand on her lips. His brows knitted together slightly.

She released her eyes from him quickly. Her heart hammered loudly in her chest. She could feel the blazing trail of his eyes on her face. She felt her cheeks burning.

His fingers glided beneath her chin and brought her eyes to meet his again. His hazel-green iris swiped across her features again and again.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked with obvious lack of confidence in his voice.

"No," she answered, trying to find a settling direction to place her sight and to avoid her embarrassment.

"Lothíriel," he whispered softly and leaned forward. One hand coiled around her slender waist.

She saw her own reflection in his eyes.

He touched her forehead with his.

"We shall visit your father in Dol Amroth this fall. Before winter comes."

At his words, she felt a sour sting in her nose.

A drop of warm liquid fell silently off her cheek.

**TBC**

**Something shakes the boat in Dol Amroth and Lothíriel has to make a hard choice in her life...  
><strong>

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><p><strong><strong><span>Footnotes:<span>  
><strong>**

****1. Wynflaéth**: **(_Old English, feminine name_) **Fair** and **beautiful**, Gamling's wife. Separated when she left Westfold to Snowbourn, thinking he was dead, reunited with Gamling after fifteen years. She is my favourite so far. Her act of smelling his old clothes just to feel him again bloody wrenched my heart!

**2. Naneth**: (_Sindarin_) mother

**3. dan nan galad: **(_Sindarin_) back to the light

** 4. Iellig: **(_Sindarin_) Daughter

5. The reunion scene between Gamling and Wynflaéth was a hard one to write. I went over youtubes with videos of reunion scenes and must have shedded a litre of tears! I portrayed Wynflaéth's thoughts according to that of a military spouse.

6. Lothíriel was able to speak and understand Sindarin in her early years, however, she lost it after her mother's death (to be revealed in the later chapters.)

7. From **My Lady** to **Lothíriel**: In medieval ages, you only address people by first names only when: (1)you are more superior than them, (2)they are your family or, (3)you are in a close relationship with them.

* * *

><p><strong>A little about Gamling and Wynflaéth<strong>

**3002 T.A. **They met, fell in love and wedded in the same year. Gamling was 28 and Wynflaéth was 18. Gamling was a rider of the West-fold éored. Wynflaéth was a tailor.

**3004 T.A.** Gamling was promoted and started serving Théoden as one of his Royal Guards. First raid against the Dunlendings later in the year, many died. Théoden was deeply grieved and swore never again to risk an open war on his people. News reached West-fold leaving many without fathers, husbands, sons and brothers.

**3005 T.A.** In spring, Wynflaéth left Westfold to live with her aunt in Snowbourn. In autumn, Gamling returned to West-fold and could not find her. He regretted his decision not to have taken her to Edoras with him.

**3005 -3019 T.A.** Gamling progressed and became Théoden's chief bodyguard along side with Háma (who was Théoden's doorward) for fifteen years until his death in March 3019 T.A. He and Háma became good friends.

**3007 T.A.** Gamling returned to West-fold in summer, hoping to find his wife.

**3009 T.A.** Gamling's third attempt to locate his wife failed.

**3011 T.A.** His last attempt to locate her.

**3014 T.A.** Théoden's health began to fail (correct to lore, see**_ The Return of the King_, LoTR Appendix A, _Annals of the Kings and Rulers: The House of Eorl: The Kings of the Mark_** & **_Unfinished Tales_, Part 3, Ch 5, _The Battles of the Fords of Isen_**). Gamling chose never not to leave his king. He stopped going back to West-fold since. Wynflaéth's aunt died in Snowbourn.

**3019 T.A.** In March, Snowbourn was raided by Dunlending outlaws on the night before they were due to leave to Dunharrow. The outlaws massacred half of the inhabitants and enslaved the rest. Wynflaéth was taken as one of the slaves to mine ores across Rohan and Dunland.

**3020 T.A.** Reunion after fifteen years of separation. Gamling was now 46 and Wynflaéth 36.

* * *

><p><strong><span>About Éomer and Lothíriel: Recap of the events over the past one year<span>  
><strong>

**15 March 3019 T.A.**

They met on the Pelennor Fields

**16 March 3019 T.A.**

Éomer's first meeting with Hannor and Moriel, second with Lothíriel, in the City of Minas Tirith.

Lothíriel first meeting with Éothain.

Hannor had gone missing later that day and found in the forest, then found and rescued by the Rohirrim

Éomer's second meeting with Moriel, and later he tended Lothíriel's foot

**17 March 3019 T.A.**

Éomer asked a favour from Imrahil to look after his sister.

**18 March 3019 T.A.**

March of the West to the Black Gate

**20 March 3019 T.A.**

Lothíriel's battle with the Guild of Tradesmen and her first meeting with Éowyn

**30 April 3019 T.A.**

Return of the Captains of the West with their host

**1 May 3019 T.A.**

Aragorn's coronation day.

Board game between Lothíriel and Éothain, later with Éomer.

First dance between Éomer and Lothíriel. Saewon and his younger son Galvror made first appearance.

Éomer warned Lothíriel about her recklessness.

They later met again in the Tomb of Kings, Saewon talked of the proposal he made to Imrahil. Lothíriel revealed that her mother had deceased.

**18 - 20 July 3019 T.A.**

A drunk Éomer mourned his dead uncle

**20 July 3019 T.A.**

Imrahil discussed Lothíriel's future with her.

He later asked Éomer to take her to Rohan.

**21 July 3019 T.A.**

Imrahil's talk with Hannor and promise he made with the boy.

Elphir's visit to Éomer's camp.

**Post 22 July 3019 T.A.**

The journey to carry the procession of Théoden began, so did Lothíriel's first step outside Gondor. Aragorn's amusement at the exchange between his friend and Imrahil's daughter.

Riddle at campfire.

The next day, Éothain and Lothíriel shared a little amusement together.

Lothíriel came to the terms with her own feelings

**August 3019 T.A.**

Théoden's funeral procession arrived in Edoras.

Éomer inherited the throne at Edoras officially.

Lothíriel joined Éomer's council as a Gondor diplomat, resulted in constant disagreement and debate.

Prior to her family leaving, Erchirion disclosed the condition that Éomer requested for Lothíriel to stay in Rohan.

**Fall 3019 T.A.**

Completion of the orphanage – Gamling's first change of impression of Lothíriel.

Lothíriel's first practice at teaching and learning language of the Mark

Éomer offered her to join as a member of his household to replace the retired Mægen, Meduseld's cook.

Éomer's first notice the strange behaviour of Lothíriel around him while training a young horse.

**Winter 3019 T.A.**

Lothíriel's dream of Gúthwinë.

Major disagreement about Snowbourn.

Discovery of the massacre at Snowbourn.

Éomer's ordeal after Snowbourn.

Major breakthrough in the relationship between Éomer and Lothíriel.

**Yule 3019 T.A.**

Lothíriel's first Mōdraniht in Edoras and experience with Rohirric Yule culture: cheese rolling, boar-hunting and boar head festival.

She was now able to understand language of the Mark but still learning to converse in it.

The first sign of Éomer, still unknown to him, showed his protective nature of Lothíriel.

The offer of Yule gift from Éomer.

**Post Yule 3020 T.A.**

Erkenbrand's visit with his new recruits.

Éomer's display of jealousy.

**February 3020 T.A.**

Letter from Erchirion that broke Lothíriel of her fantasy.

She began avoiding Éomer.

Her ability to converse in language of the Mark became evident from singing Rohirric lullabies.

Éomer's attempt at demanding an explanation for her behaviour and the tension nearly overthrew his rationale.

Lothíriel's declaration of her feeling and misery after confrontation with Éomer.

Éomer's decision to send a letter to Dol Amroth.

**March 3020 T.A.**

Lothíriel's reckless heroic act that led to her capture and torture by Dunlending outlaws.

Éomer rode to Helm's Deep, trying to find her and his people.

Lothíriel's display of ability to converse fluently in Rohirric.

Moriel's failed attempt at seducing him.

Vision from Gúthwinë.

Raid at the Pit of Iron and successful rescue.

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><p>A big thank you again for everyone who continues to support this story, especially the beloved reviewers whose remarks are the courage and motivation for this work!<p>

**Glory Bee**: I hope you like the change in Éomer :)

**xmmara**: Yes, Hannor is brilliant. There will be a chapter based on his POV soon :)

**kritters03**: Thank you :)

**b5delenn**: Lothíriel did not know or remember the bare-chest LOL (actually I forgot to include it!) Maybe a little reminder from Hannor would do...hmmm?

**Pipkin in the Grass**: Your pen-name reminds me of "Pinky and the Brain"! Ha! I will need to include the witty thing in the end of this chapter too!

**BrightWatcher**: Ten silver yes! =p The emotions of seeing someone whom you thought was dead - it is hard to describe.

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><p><strong>The Infamous Skiing Resort of Forochel is proud to sponsor Chapter 22: Reclaiming the Past!<strong>

**Our complimentary service also includes **

**1. Snow-beast hunts (we call them Peikko and they look like Yetis, we believe they are related, yes, we have been overpopulated with them here!) or other creatures which the Lossoth (inhabitants of Forochel) know them as Norsu (aka Mammoths), Kilpa-kita (aka sabre-toothed lions) and Susi (which are white wolves).**

**2. Snow sleighs by Great Ice bay where the Arvedui the Last King of Arthedain, fled and later perished after the fall of his noble capital of Fornost. Night trips are highly recommended as it has been several reports of sighting of the ghost of Arvedui (Not to be missed if you are a fan of King Elessar!). **

**Forochel is now accessible via the road north from Ost Forod in Evendim!**

**And most of all - our snowmen never melt!**


	23. Location is everything

**Description of mild adult scene. Please skip if you are under** **12.**

**This chapter is especially dedicated to Glory Bee, BrightWatcher and b5delenn._  
><em>**

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><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

_**Chapter 23: Location Is Everything**_

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><p><strong>Love and jealousy are sisters<strong>

**~Russion Proverbs**

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><p>April 3020 T.A. Helm's Deep.<p>

She was confused and astonished by his words at the same time. A series of different scenarios crossed her mind. What did he mean by visiting her father? To return her to Dol Amroth for permanent cause or to revoke the condition of her stay in Rohan?

She would like to think the later. She was hoping he would explain it further but by the look of it, he made no intention of doing so.

And there was this deathly silence again between them.

"Are Édhere and Wynflaéth still alive?"

She felt she had to ask something to steer her mind away from what he said earlier. Something not about him or her. She recalled the two persons whom she remembered the most from the pit.

"Édhere is recovering in the healing chamber downstairs. You may go to visit him when you feel stronger. Wynflaéth has been reunited with Gamling."

She tore herself from his embrace and looked at him, frowning, completely confused.

"Wynflaéth and Gamling? Reunited?"

"Wynflaéth is Gamling's wife. They have been separated for fifteen years," he explained, slowly turning his glare away from her, "she thought Gamling was dead."

She found herself completely astonished by this news. Being Gamling's wife certainly explained her courage. Wynflaéth had always appeared and remained strong during their captive days in the hands of the Dunlendings. She had every trait that a soldier's spouse would possessed. .

Lothíriel noticed the emotions flashed in his eyes. Regret and more regret. She understood. Wynflaéth and Gamling were probably not the only couple separated by the wars. There could be more families and victims. Fathers that might have missed all the years of their children growing up. Siblings that thought their brothers were dead.

"Éomer…."

Before she could offer more consolation, their conversation was prematurely arrested by a knock on the door.

"My Lady?"

"Yes?"

It was Moriel.

Lothíriel felt Éomer shifted uncomfortably. He withdrew his hands from her and regained his guarded posture but she could see his jaw muscle was all buckled up. Was he upset at being interrupted?

Moriel pushed the door open and surprise was all written on her face when she saw Éomer sitting next Lothíriel.

"Moriel!" Lothíriel exclaimed. She was hoping to see her friend earlier.

"I am so sorry, my Lord! I did not know you were with Lady Lothíriel," she bowed immediately, trying to hide her face," I….I did not mean to interrupt. I am truly sorry."

Lothíriel heard the man near to her drew a breath. A disapproving one if she was not wrong. She thought she saw him narrowing his eyes but she could have misjudged.

Not getting a reply from Éomer, the young maid knew better to take her leave, "I shall come back later, my Lady."

She curtsied and left hurriedly.

Lothíriel turned to the Horse-Lord. Was it a defensive aura that she sensed from him just now? It made her hackles stand. But before she could open her mouth, he rose to his feet and said to her, "Be careful whom you trust."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just remember my words," he threw her a reminder glance before leaving her chamber.

Lothíriel was even more flummoxed by his sudden warning which she only came to remember much later afterwards.

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><p>For the past few weeks, Erkenbrand had sent out many scouts to locate the still surviving families of the people they just rescued. When most refugees either were reunited with their lost families and friends, or, found their new roles and purposes in life. It was a merry day for most. A feast was to be held tonight celebrate the reunions of families and friends.<p>

Wynflaéth watched the doors of the Hall close on one young woman and could not help but feel a little annoyed. She descended the stone stairs and pounded a wooden bucket of washed laundry on the patio. It was so loud that it startled Lothíriel who was sitting next to her bucket.

"Are you …..well, Wynflaéth?" The younger woman asked carefully.

"Not really," she grumbled, teeth gritted, while spreading the laundry on the airing line as if the wet clothes were her enemies that she wished to smack to death. Her eyes never left her husband whom she just reunited no more than three weeks ago. He was discussing the relocation plan with his King, Erkenbrand on the Outer Court.

She let out another disapproving snort when some women came up to offer tea to the Rohirrim trio. Truth be told, she never liked anyone near her husband, especially which anyone happened to be a woman!

It was not just the fact that they had just reunited after fifteen years of separation, nor that some maids were not pretty nor the tea they made. No, what made her hackles raise the most was the smile that every woman seemed to offer whenever she passed by her husband. Wynflaéth had just been with him for three weeks and everywhere he was seen without her, there was always another opposite sex trying to demonstrate the ultimate art of flirting in front of him. It was enough to make her blood boil. She knew her husband was not the most handsome man in Rohan, but in his mid forties and being a rider, he was pretty fit and toned. The thought of someone unashamedly projecting a deliberate embarrassed smile on their faces grated on her nerves.

And then there was this shy and timid look.

Sure, it might just have been a courteous response but she hadn't not prepared herself for it and she hope never to see anything like that again. Maybe that was why she suddenly blurted out afterwards, "they have no shame!"

"Is there anything I could…..help?" Confused, Lothíriel titled her head enough to get a look at the older woman's face and inquired cautiously. She could feel the rage radiating from Wynflaéth as every word from her appeared to have been forced out from her tight-clenched jaw.

"Yes! Come to the training field with me!"

Lothíriel looked at Wynflaéth wide-eyed as the Rohír woman dragged her down the stairs to The Deep where the novice found fun torturing the straw dummies.

"Wynflaéth, are you…. angry?" Lothíriel clung her left bandaged arm close to herself and tried carefully not to sound too nosy. She learned about the history between Wynflaéth and Gamling but she had never seen the advisor's wife in this kind of temperament before.

"No. I am NOT!" Although in strong denial, Wynflaéth struggled to suppress the anger fuming from her voice. Of course, she was not. To stay calm and turn a blind eye, she would have to be a goddess which she was not! Yes, she had to show them what a rider's spouse was made of.

They continued to push their way through the soldiers, busy wives and mothers. They crossed the Deeping Stream and came to an archery training field just before the Rear Gate of the fortified keep.

"Stay here. You should not come any closer." Wynflaéth turned around and parked the confused young Gondorian woman next to the weapon stands before collecting herself a bow and a quiver.

"Wynflaéth, what are you doing?" asked the concerned younger woman, grabbing her arm not letting her go.

"To show people some of my qualities! What a rider's spouse is capable of!" Wynflaéth unwrapped Lothíriel off her arm. She wore the quiver across her and stepped forward and positioned herself fifteen yards before a straw dummy.

Her fluid motion of retrieving an arrow from the quiver, fitting it onto the mallorn bow in her other hand, pulling it against the bow string earned her more admiration from the stunned young woman behind. She squinted at the target in front. She paused for a moment, trying to stabilise her unsteady breathing and to focus her mind. Telling herself that the dummy was now her enemy, a hiss went past too quick and short from her right ear as her curled fingers on the spring released and her first shot pierced through the head. The dart sprout from behind the straw man.

Good, her skill had not become too rusty. The aim could have been more centred but that would do for now. Wynflaéth took a quick glimpse and saw Lothíriel watching her in overflowing bewilderment.

"Wynflaéth! I did not know you could do this!"

The younger woman was completely overwhelmed by what she saw.

"Only to hunt and….." she loaded another arrow, "…..to vent my grudge," she murmured, still upset.

Another quick shot went with great precision. The fleetness and endurance in her shots soon earned her some whistles and praising applauds from some new recruits and old grizzly riders who had gathered around.

"Good shot!"

"Well done!"

"Way to go!"

More and more gathered around to watch her, that of course including her targeted audience – the serving maids whom she saw flirting with her husband. They were muttering lowly to each other, covering their mouths with their sleeves. Anxienty and worry displayed on their faces – exactly what she wanted to achieve today. She beamed a victorious and satisfied smile at Lothíriel before resuming her torture game on the straw man.

"I am not just some woman whom you thought you could get away flirting with my man!" Teeth gritted, she fired another precision shot.

This little happening soon made its way into the ears of many and was the subject on most every lip by the time the feast began in the evening. So everyone now knew Gamling's wife could shot.

And she could shot very well.

And she could shot even better when she was angry.

And of course that was not the end of the story. The event that followed made such a deep impression in everyone's mind that Gamling ultimately became the idol of many young esquires and his peers.

So it began that evening when everyone was seated in the dining hall. Gamling, Wynflaéth, Erkenbrand, Lothíriel, Éothain and his knights were all sitting at Éomer's table. The smell of roasted meat filled the air. The atmosphere was quite merry with people singing and dancing. Food was served continuously with trays going back and forth between the kitchens and the tables.

Wynflaéth eyed every serving girl that came to their table with a guarded look. There was always one who would come every five minutes to replenish the empty tankards and cups with meads and wines. The very same one who she saw in the afternoon would come to refill her husband's empty tankard. She was surprised that the young girl did not get her warning in the afternoon with all those killing shots that she had demonstrated.

It was a happy evening for almost everyone. She did not wish to ruin it. But her patience was at its edge. She had been jealous for the whole afternoon and thought it would not continue to trouble her in the evening. But she was wrong. Some people just won't get it until you show them your true colours.

Here she came again with her ever bright smile that stretched from one ear to another.

Her stupid husband was even smiling back at her. Wynflaéth drained her wine, refilled it and drained it again. She looked away in disgust and sulked.

Gamling, sitting next to her and being all merry and happily chatting with his comrades, continued to bury his nose in his drink.

"Wynflaéth, are you feeling unwell? Did the practice tire you too much?" Lothíriel asked, sensing the change in the older woman's mood.

"I am fine," she drained another cup and pushed herself from the table and announced, "excuse me, my Lords, I wish to retire early tonight."

That certainly caught the attention of the whole table.

"Wynflaéth, are you not well?" grabbing her hand, her insensitive husband finally threw her a concerned look.

Her heart wrenched at little at his inobservance for the whole evening. Could he not see that she was not happy? That she was angry every time some maids came close to him?

"I am just a little tired. I wish to rest now. Enjoy the rest of the evening, my Lords and Lady!" she shook off his grip and bowed.

All the eyes on the table followed the figure of the blond woman until she finally disappeared across the hall.

"Gamling," Lothíriel pushed the old rider with her elbow and whispered in his ear, "I don't think Wynflaéth has been very happy at all today. Maybe you should talk to her."

"She is not happy? Nah, Wynflaéth is always happy! She is just a little tired!" he waved his hand to shake off her worry.

"But she-"

Before she could finish, she saw Éomer signalling at her. He shook his head and gestured that she should leave it to him. So even Éomer noticed Wynflaéth was unhappy.

How could Gamling be so thick?

* * *

><p>It was almost midnight when his King called off the party and urged everyone to bed. There was still much preparation needed before they went back to Edoras. By the time, Gamling returned to his bedchamber, he found Wynflaéth already asleep in bed. There were piles of folded clothes on his dresser. They were his torn clothes that he wished to throw away. But now they were good as new. He ran his fingers on the stitches where the tears and holes used to be. A smile touched his lips. Wynflaéth had repaired all of them like she always did when they were still in Westfold.<p>

He dabbed a towel into a basin of warm water and cleaned himself before allowing himself in bed. He had had a few pints tonight but he was nowhere near as drunk as he was when the three Princeses of Dol Amroth managed to get every Rohír, including Éomer, pissed that night. That was a painful lesson, waking up with a massive hangover and no clue of what happened the night before. It took him days to recover and he promised himself that he won't get drunk again.

"Wynflaéth?" he whispered after he sneaked into their bed.

No response.

Good, she must be sleeping. Good.

With a sigh of relief, he dropped his head onto a fluffy pillow and pulled the quilt onto his shoulders. Perhaps it was the alcohol, he dozed off very soon.

Her eyes flew open as soon as she heard his breathing became deep and steady. No, she was not asleep. She could not sleep. She sat up and looked into the empty air.

She was angry and upset.

Fifteen years that they had lost and why was Gamling treating her this way? So polite?

He would kiss and hug her but no more. For the three weeks together, it was no moment of intimacy. Had she grown so old and ugly that he despised her? Or had he found new interests in younger women? That could not be either. He did not take a new wife for fifteen years. Why did he not touch her since their reunion? Did he regard her as a tainted woman?

As all these haunting thoughts swirled their way into her mind, her body began trembling uncontrollably and she wept silently. She did not know how long she had wept before her husband noticed.

"Wynflaéth?" he asked, noticing the empty space next to him, "what is wrong?"

She just kept her back to him and shook her head. Her sobs became a little louder.

"Wynflaéth?" he asked again. This time, truly concerned, he sat up and wrapped his arm around her, "are you crying?"

She flicked his arm away rudely, "if you don't want to touch me just don't touch me, Gamling!"

There were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks.

"Wynflaéth? Why are you crying?"

"Why?" Enraged by his question, she flared, "you know why! Fifteen years has gone and I thought you had not changed! But you have! Am I so ugly, so dirty that you don't even dare laying your fingers? You have smiled at every serving girl tonight and for the past three weeks you did not even want to spare a moment of intimacy with me!"

"No, Wynflaéth," he tried to pull her in his arms but she shook him off, "it is not what you think."

She sniffled and turned her tearful face away, "if you wish to divorce me, just tell me, Gamling. I will grant it."

He waited for a moment for the peak of her anger to pass.

"Wynflaéth, listen to me," he came to sit next to her, brushing her tears away with his rough thumb, "would you listen to me, Wynflaéth?"

Her attitude softened a little. She nodded reluctantly.

"I love nobody else more than I love you, Wynflaéth. Words could not describe the joy I felt the moment I found you again. All my life I just to keep you with me," he took her hands in his, touching the blunt fingers, and stared into her watery eyes and forced a weak smile, "Only Béma knows how much you mean to me. My heart aches whenever I see the bruises on your arms and legs. I have restrained myself from touching you because I thought you were not ready. I wish not to bring back the trauma and nightmare," he caressed her face fondly and held his eyes on her for a long time.

"You don't know how difficult it is, being in the same bed, and, not being able to touch you. To feel so close and yet so afraid to touch. There is not one day that I did not regret not taking you to Edoras with me that day. I was a fool to have left you in Westfold," he added bitterly.

His words just sprang more tears from her eyes. Eyes closed, she clasped his hand that was on her face and squeezed it. He loved her. And he still loved her. She furled her arms around his neck, sobbing.

"I'd missed you so much, my Gamling!"

"I'd missed you too, Wynflaéth," he slid his fingers through her fine hair, "more than you ever imagined."

She unfurled her arms and looked at her husband. Age had slipped its way silently onto his appearance. There were lines on his forehead. His beard had grown long. The weather had seasoned every patch of his skin. There were bags beneath his eyes.

"I am your wife and will always be. Until death does us apart," she smiled and embraced him and kissed him on the mouth.

He kissed her back.

He smelled and tasted like she remembered. She felt a strong sour sting in her throat. It had been so long! So long! And she still remembered.

She let her hands slide under his shirt, running down his muscled front. She felt his breathing becoming heavier. Their kiss grew more passionate. She could feel his tongue intertwining with hers. She let out a small moan. Her fingers worked their way swiftly to remove his shirt. She could feel his chest moving exited under her touch.

"Wynflaéth," he called her. His voice was rough.

"Gamling," she lifted her eyes at him and she could see raising hunger in his eyes. Perhaps it was the alcohol but she cared no more. All she wanted was to feel him tonight.

He pulled her back into his embrace, one hand around her neck and another around her waist, and continued to kiss her. It became more passionate and more longing than they ever knew. She felt him pressing himself tightly against her. Just beneath the cotton fabric, she could feel his desire building up. His body was burning. Years did not seem to affect his body – a distinct advantage being a rider. It was still the same muscle, the same line that she longed every night.

She threw her legs around him. He slid his mouth down onto her neck, kissing and smuggling, burying his head on her shoulder and inhaling greedily the scent that he had missed for so long.

"Wynflaéth," he whispered under loud bating breaths, pushing away all the obstructing fabrics.

Their passion grew beyond control. She tightened her legs around him, forcing herself down. It made both of them moan. She threw her head backwards and dug her fingernails in his back.

The union between both of them, she could not deny that the pleasure it brought was overwhelming. His deep motion inside her drew the air out of her lungs.

"Gam….ling….Gam…ling…."Her speech became stuttering.

They still belonged to each other. That was all that mattered tonight.

Wynflaéth could not remember how long they dwelled in each other. It might be long. They became so exhausted that they fell in a deep sleep short after. And of course, little things that you don't remember always manage to find their ways to remind you the day after.

And how others would remember you for the rest of your life…

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><p>The first light of dawn escaped through the slits of the heavy curtain. It was a weak ray. His room in Helm's Deep was westward-facing. There was only direct sun light after noon. Éomer called for a servant. But none came after several tries.<p>

A little frustrated, even after a year, he was not used to live a life of being an inept man, more precisely a King, having to wait for people to bath and dress him. He had been content with taking care of himself but somehow his council thought it was unkingly.

Then came a light tap on the door.

"My Lord Éomer?"

"Éothain, come in."

The young Marshal stepped in with an extremely tired look on his face. There were dark circles beneath his eyes.

"Wha do you wis? Aaa ..washh?" Éothain asked his King weakly in a monotone.

Resting his forehead on his fingers, Éomer shook his head helplessly before throwing a frowning look at the younger man, "I told you so many times not to get drunk. Béma's sake, you look like a drained horse!"

"It wasss not te wine…." His bodyguard protested, giving a big yawn, "di you not har it last night?"

"What?"

"Neever min…" Éothain waved off the subject, "I'll tell you after you are drezzed."

So, after Éomer had finished with his wash and got dressed, he was accompanied to the breakfast table by the continuous brabbling morning feed from his young Marshal.

"You cannot be serious, Éothain!"

Éomer would very much like to think that Éothain was pulling his leg.

"I am not! You can go and ask Marshal Enkerbrand!" the younger Rohír, now completely awakened by the disbelief demonstrated by his King after listening to the complaints he received this morning, defended himself.

"Are you saying everyone? East Wing?"

"I think most of them are, well, save you and those over here!"

"I certainly need to clarify this with Marshal Erkenbrand," Éomer continued to work his mind around the situation, approaching the table, he called out without looking, "Marshal Erken-"

Of course he did not finish his sentence.

Nobody was bloody at the breakfast table! The cups and cutlery were there. The bench was warm with the rising sun but the dining hall was empty!

It had been a norm that Éomer always dined with his people either it was main meal or tea break. But to find nobody at the table was something more than unusual this morning. Erkenbrand was popular as a man never to miss his breakfast. But even the red shield of Erkenbrand could not be seen.

Éomer turned his questioning gaze to Éothain. The young Marshal just shrugged and said, "I told you so."

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose, a little frustrated, he gestured at Éothain, "Just go and get me breakfast, would you please, Éothain?"

"Lack of choice this morning obviously. The kitchen is temporarily incapable of producing your normal daily selection of breakfast because we suffer some severe breakdown of manpower…do you wish to downgrade yourself with just bread and butter, Sire?"

"Éothain!"

"Yes!"

"Just go and fetch whatever you can find!"

"Aye, aye!"

Éomer pulled a chair out and sat himself on it. So how would his Uncle handle the situation? It was tricky one. He pulled his lips into a flat line, trying to think of a better solution, without causing much offence.

Tapping his fingers impatiently on the wooden surface, his other hand supporting his forehead, he closed his eyes trying to recall how Théoden would have solved the complaints. His brows squeezed together as he failed to remember if there was any situation as such during the reign of his uncle.

"Gooooo morninnng," another ghostly voice rang in the hall.

He took over his shoulder to follow the source of the voice and found Lothíriel standing against a rock pillar, looking very tired. He was not surprised to see her here. Since the mention of his intended visit to Dol Amroth, the tension between them became gradually milder yet not completely gone. They could talk without tongue-lashing each other. It had changed for good but it did not matter today. There was something else more urgent o deal with.

"Have you not slept?"

He asked her as she yawned.

"Nuuu enough," she answered, trying to blinking always the tears in her eyes. She came over to the breakfast table, pulled the chair out and sat and rested her head on her right hand and said lazily, "I see. Not everyone is here for breakfast. Marshal Erkenbrand is not here so it might be true."

She then let out another yawn and stretched her free hand above her head.

"You don't look tired," she titled her head to look at him, envied at his well rested state.

"I slept well."

"Good for you. You don't have Hannor knocking at your door at two o'clock in the morning," she said with her eyes closed.

"Why would he come to look for you at two o'clock?"

"Oh! Lady Lothíriel, you are awake too! Lord Éomer, look! I've found more than just bread and butter! Enough for three of us!"

Éothain came back from the kitchen with a tray full of food in his hands, probably having raided everything corner in the kitchen. He placed it on the table and laid out several loaves of breads, some biscuits and cookies, butter, jams, a jar of milk and a huge teapot.

"Thanks, Éothain!" He accepted the oat bread from his bodyguard and turned to pour everyone some tea. "So?" Éomer asked, pouring Lothíriel tea in her cup, reminded her that she had not answered his question, "why did Hannor knock at your door?"

She responded with a disbelief sigh and dropped her shoulder.

"Because of that! If you have not been told already?"

It was an embarrassing subject to discuss.

"I didn't think you would recognise it."

That statement earned him a puzzled look from Lothíriel.

"Sorry? Why would I be incapable of doing so?"

Éomer straightened his back slightly and resumed the task spreading some butter on his bread and said in a casual tone, "I meant, given that you are rather inexperienced, I am surprised that you could actually tell."

"Inexperienced? You said I am inexperienced? You are the one who nearly-"

She covered her own mouth with a hand quickly and buried her face in her tea cup after realising what she was about to blurt out in front of Éothain. It would be absolutely unwise to bring their exchanges up at all.

The young Marshal eyed both of them suspiciously. "Nearly what?"

"Nothing."

Lothíriel looked at Éomer, having a strong urge to throw her milk-soaked biscuit at him, and then she turned her head and saw Éothain who had his nose almost in his tea but eye rolling, trying hard to formulate the last part of her unfinished sentence.

"I am not certain you were able to tell, that is all."

"For the sake of Valar! Two of my brothers are married and one is engaged AND my family is overpopulated with men! I am not twelve, Lord Éomer!"

"I am not so sure."

That came from Éothain and rewards came in the form of milk-soaked crumbs.

"So, he asked you about it?"

Éomer could not hold back his interest at finding how Lothíriel handle the situation especially when the subject was a young boy. It might be able to shed him some light on how to handle _his_ later.

"Not exactly," she answered, nibbling her biscuit, "he thought it was a dire situation. He pulled me out to the court."

"The poor boy must be sssscared to deathhhh!" Éothain inserted, a bite of cookie in his mouth.

"He insisted that I should go to the…," she threw a deep breath and continued to explain, "….rescue….I told him that it was not dire, that nobody was hurt….soooo…there was no need to go to the rescue."

"Did he buy it?"

"If he had bought, I would not have spent two hours trying to convince him, my Lord! Are you blind?" She responded by pointing at the dark circles below her eyes – proof of lack of sleep.

"What did you do then?" Éomer asked, sipping his tea.

"I told him to ask…."there was a long pause before Lothíriel could answer and she stared at Éomer who was still sipping his tea, and said with ever decreasing volume, "…you"

"You told him WHAT?"

Éomer thought the world just fell on him. He tried to swallow the volume of tea in his mouth but it felt like it had just become a huge piece of solid gum. He was not expecting this. This was not going where he thought it would. Grabbing a napkin from the table, he forced down the liquid and let out a heavy breath.

"Like you have just said, I am rather inexperienced. I thought if it was a man to man talk, it would go down easier…" She raised her hands up defensively.

Damn, how was he going to explain to a ten year old? It was not a simple as horse riding or changing a shoe.

"You could have directed him to Éothain instead of me! He has a ten-year-old brain anyway," Éomer's excuse was a weak defence.

"Oh! No way! Not in a thousand years that I could catch up with your reputati-"

A sharp glare shot at his direction and Éothain clamped his lips as tight as Farmer Barwick's milk barrel and swallowed his words back into his stomach.

"Tell Erkenbrand to give everyone a halfday break, Éothain, and send a note to fetch them," Éomer wiped his mouth clean with a napkin and pushed himself away from the dining table, "I will see them in my study."

Headache, headache! This was far worse than fighting mûmakil in Gondor.

"You might want to fit Hannor in somewhere between your busy agenda today," she threw him a quick gaze before sipping her tea again, "the boy is very excited and is looking forward so much to talking to you."

"In that case, Lady Lothíriel, you shall join me in my study then."

She pulled a face at him. Great, now they were all involved.

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><p>Wynflaéth woke up late in the morning. To be exact, she did not raise until an hour before noon. Her head ached and other parts of her body were sore. Turning she watched Gamling, still sleeping wrapped in the feather quilt. She continued to watch her husband for some time.<p>

The sun light softened his features significantly. He seemed so young again in his sleep. Forcing herself to look away from him, she searched for her robe and quickly wrapped it around her before the chill took her.

She tried to flag down a passing maid and asked for some bath water. Then her glance fell on a piece of paper under the door. It looked like there was a matter of utter urgency that their presence was required as soon as possible.

Once the bath arrived, she woke Gamling up and tried to get both of them ready in an impossible short time. It was rude to make the King wait for them.

On their way to Éomer's study, they met some riders and their spouses, almost everyone grinning at their sight.

Wynflaéth thought she must look awful to have attracted so much attention. Did she not wear her collar high enough? She quickly checked her dress and realised that the collar was almost up to her chin. And it was not winter anymore. And the weather was mild.

Half-way down the hallway, they met Éothain who was smiling rather overly warmhearted to them. Some riders with their wives were passing the company, whispering and shooting glances at her. They giggled and muttered among themselves whilst their husbands' eyes shone with unusual respect to her husband. There was a distinct difference between the response directed to her and those to Gamling. Wynflaéth thought that was rather impolite of their spouses to react in such a silly manner. She never liked to abuse her position as the spouse of the King's advisor but she hated the response she was getting this morning. Was it the archery practice? Or the death glare that she had been shooting at each serving maid last night?

She grabbed Éothain and stopped him, "Have I done something wrong that Éomer King wishes to see me so urgently?"

"Nothing….. in particular," Éothain's glance darted between her and her husband. He knew he could not lie. Men of the Mark would not lie. So he was trying the best to express it in a different manner. "I am sure he just wants to find out how well you are _doing_."

At last they reached Éomer's study and Éothain, immediately, took his leave.

"Good morning, Gamling. Good morning, Wynflaéth," he turned, standing full body.

They found Éomer looking out from a window. They were also surprised to see Lothíriel present. She was sitting on a long chair, slipping some tomes that Helm Hammerhand had left.

"Good morning, my Lord. Good morning, Lady Lothíriel," they both curtsied.

Lothíriel returned it with a polite bow.

"What is the urgent matter, my Lord?" Gamling obviously was concerned with the message he received this morning. He understood Éomer and knew he won't send a note unless it was really urgent and required immediate attention.

There were still some low mutters and glares coming from the hallway where the door to it had been left open.

"Gamling, if you could close the door, please?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Wynflaéth watched as her husband pushed the door shut, she could not help but remarked, "How inconspicuous of them!"

"Wynflaéth!"

Gamling heard her.

Éomer gestured at the pair to sit. Only after they sat that he pulled a chair in front of them. He looked at them with the best neutral expression he could put on and explained in a very low and calm tone.

"You two were loud enough last night. You almost woke up the whole East Wing."

**TBC**

**Éomer and Lothíriel's story continues in next chapter right after Éomer cracks his brain trying to explain to Hannor about what the young boy had heard last night! The boats shake in Dol Amroth + **Lothíriel**'s decision  
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><p><em><strong>Footnotes:<strong>_

_**East Wing**_: East part of Helm's Deep including the The Deep, Deepening Stream, The Wall and basically the half of the Keep. Most riders and their spouses dwell in this wing.

_**West Wing**_: It consists of Hammerhand's bedchamber (which is now Éomer's when he visits), a study, a few healing chambers. Hence when the morning comes, Éomer does not see the direct sun light.

Helm's Deep Map is described according to Middle-Earth Map by Karen Wynn Fonstad.

_**Author's note:**_

A bit on the light scene between Gamling and Wynflaéth - I figure the need for something lighter after all these heavy drama. The romance between Mr & Mrs Éomer would, of course, continue, but I have a strong urge to insert some non-Éomer stuff in between. And this bit has been extracted from a draft for Mr & Mrs Éomer and reedited to make it milder. Now I am not sure if it was a good idea at all to include bed scene because my original draft for Mr & Mrs Éomer was described very much in detail. Hmmm... thoughts, guys and girls?

(Yes, Wynflaéth, in my own little world, is supposed to be incredibly attractive. I did not give much insight into her appearance because I wanted this chapter to come from a woman whom wants to feel loved again! Not Gamling's thoughts on how sexy his wife is, yet! But...don't worry some juicy bits are kept for Éomer and Lothíriel!)

And how do you explain that to a ten year old? Though I have my draft ready, I would still welcome back all sort of ideas!

Sorry again that it is not much Éomer and Lothíriel in this chapter. I need a break from them! They are driving me mad!

Once again thank you for everyone who has been following this story. I would not have gone this far without you all! *tips hat and bows*

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><p><strong>Please review and I still welcome any sort of comments regarding my grammar or spelling etc!<strong> **Thank you!**


	24. A Lesson Too Soon

**A big thank you to b5delenn (who has been so generously offered me the idea of how to explain the "act" to Hannor and which subsequently gets our Horse-Lord into a little trouble.) and Talia119 (who reminded me that Gamling and his missus should be proud). This is all good as the reward will come as a saucy scene in next chapter! :D  
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_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

_**Chapter 24: A Lesson Too Soon**_

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><p>Wynflaéth felt her mind had just gone blank. Éomer's words roared like a thunder in her ears. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and turned to look at Gamling, hoping to ease their embarrassment. But no, her husband just stared at their king absently.<p>

They did not expect this and to make matter worse, it came out so directly from Éomer's mouth. A person who was not only their Kin but also someone younger than them. Wynflaéth felt stupid like a young girl being caught by her mother at watching young boys bathing in the river. She wished the floor would crack open and swallow her like a giant crater. Or, she would shrink herself to the size of a rat and hide in a rat-hole.

"Everyone heard….us?" She heard her husband asked carefully.

Éomer put a finger in front of his mouth to reassure silence in the study. He rose onto his feet and walked very quietly to the door. He paused as his hand touched the knob and he swung the door open swiftly.

OOF!

The hall way fell silent immediately.

He was met with at least a dozen faces, wide-eyed. The lower corner of his left eye was twitching. His teeth were grinding impatiently.

He was right. He knew his men. They were everywhere like flies buzzing around horse muck. There were five fallen over just an inch away from his boots. There were at least another six on both left and right sides. They quickly found something to occupy themselves with. Those five on the floor were admiring the seams on the rug when there was hardly any seam left on the worn textile. The others were inspecting very attentively every crack on the wooden slab and every rust on the iron bar.

He knew their faces, from young esquires to a few old riders, notably two of them were Gamling's peers.

"Go..good day, Sire…"

At least one was brave enough to remember his manner.

"Care to explain your presence outside my study, Riders?"

Swallowing a mouth of empty air to brave himself, the courageous one replied honestly, "We…..we came to learn from Marshal Gamling, you know…we thought you both were having a conversation about how to….you know…a manly discussion of the subject…"

"Really?"

"Yes, Sire!"

"Anything else you would like to add, Riders?"

That was not a smart question as it further embarked a series of honest answers.

"Many are interested in this subject, my Lord!"

"Have you found out the _tactics_, Sire?"

"Which position was it?"

"Did wine help?"

"Tell Gamling to share! Many more could benefit from it!"

"We would be very happy to be part of your council for this matter!" another older Rider added.

"Silence!" All the nerve on his body was crawling all over. His day began with extreme difficult challenge. He did not want any extra troubles. And now he found a dozen of his men being overly earnest and honest with their thoughts. Yes, Men of the Mark do not lie. Sometimes honesty is a curse.

"I granted halfday break. Not permission to eavesdrop a conversation between a king and his Chief Advisor," he exhaled a long breath out and turned his eyes to the hall way, "Erkenbrand!"

The Lord of the Westfold appeared and stood proud and tall in front of his King.

"At your order, my Lord!"

Éomer could see bemusement leaking from the corner of his Marshal's eyes when the old Westfold Marshal tried to look into the study. He sighed and said weakly, "send them to the kitchen to get lunch ready."

No harm was done this time. They were just curios. He had a soft spot for his men that he never wanted to admit.

He heard groans and silent protests as Erkenbrand dragged away the poor souls and his voice fading, "you lot should thank Béma that Lord Éomer did not send you mucking Firefoot's barn…"

"Get some wine too!" he added before calling for his bodyguard, "Éothain!"

He needed some wine desperately to work his mind around today.

The younger rider came out from hiding behind a rock pillar, struggling to stop his lips from curling upwards.

"Guard the door with every attention and every nerve you have!" he said before closing the door. He turned to the pair whose faces were redder than a ground cherry.

Wynflaéth let out a breath of relief when the door finally went shut.

"I am sorry, Gamling, Wynflaéth," he pulled his chair and sat down again, trying to recall where he had dropped off their conversation, "now where were we?…..almost everyone in the East Wing."

Wynflaéth squeezed her eyes shut and wished she was deaf.

Eomer tried to look away and made an effort to explain the situation casually, "they were awake for four hours, it seems. Erkenbrand did not come for his breakfast this morning."

"Nobody came for breakfast." A female voice inserted.

"I thought we were careful and discreet," Wynflaéth said quietly.

Yes, she thought they were. She could not recall at all that they were making that much noise. It was an extraordinary night but not as wild as when they were young. She was certain that they were not _that_ loud.

"I'm sorry to have troubled you with this, Lord Éomer!" Her husband could not be more apologetic.

"No, I'm sorry, Gamling. You both just reunited a few weeks ago, I should have thought about it and made appropriate arrangement."

"No! You have done more than enough, my Lord," Wynflaéth bowed her head and could not bring herself to look at her King anymore. She really appreciated that

"Gamling, Wynflaéth, look, there are no tapestries or curtains in your chamber. If it makes you feel better, you could ask for another bedchamber. There are plenty empty ones in the West Wing."

No! That meant a high possibility of waking their King up. Bad option! She did not want him to hear them. He was their King, for Béma's sake!

"Thanks for your offer, my Lord. I think we will contain our…err…hmmm…enthusiasms until we are back in Edoras," Gamling was wise not to bring further embarrassment upon them both.

"I have sent news to Edoras to have a cottage ready for you both upon our return. There are quite a few rooms. That should secure some privacy."

"My Lord, we cannot-"

This was too much. They could not ask more of their King after his effort to save them from their embarrassing doings.

"Wynflaéth, all married Marshals have their own dwelling. This offer does not come freely. You are required to help to run my household with Gamling."

"My Lord!" They curtsied at the offer, knowing it was one they could not decline.

The pair could not be more grateful to their King. But even the feeling of appreciation could not wipe their memory of the embarrassment; they bid to take their leave and left hastily and were not seen again until lunch time which did turn out to be quite a scene.

Now came the time for the most challenging task.

Éomer rubbed his forehead recklessly, resting it on his fingers, and turned to the idle woman at the table, "Can you tell me from the beginning until the end what Hannor actually asked?"

She let out a long sigh, "he heard their screams and asked me if it was Wynlfaéth and Gamling and if they were fighting…"

"You could have said it wasn't them!"

"How could I lie when the screams went Oh-Gamling and Oh-Wynlfaéth, Valar knows how many times it repeated itself!"

"Béma…."

"And, that is not the worst part of it….."

"….what was?"

"Occasionally, the screams were interrupted with…," she drew a deep breath, braving herself for what she was about to say, "….words like 'harder'….'more'….'please!'….'deeper'….'no!'…just to name a few."

"Béma saves me…" Éomer felt like his brain just suffered a haemorrhage.

"Now you see how difficult it was to convince him and to get him back to bed…and that did not happen until five in the morning…when they were finally done…"

"Could just have told him that it was nothing special to slack him off!"

"Believe me, THIS was special! They screamed so much that the dead might have rolled in their graves with red burning cheeks. And the echo that went on and on and on! I was considering the option to poke myself deaf!"

After a long moment of silence, Éomer thought they should return to the question at hand.

"How do you think we should do this?" He finally asked.

"_WE?_ What we? I had my turn, it is _yours_ now!" She crossed her arms.

So it was a one man show from this moment onwards. He would have to explain. He would have to demonstrate and most of all he would have to tell the truth. Not storks, not frogs or bees but THE ONE TRUTH!

"Why did you not tell him to ask Gamling?" Frustrated, he blew a short breath, pacing his steps a little recklessly.

"I am certain Gamling and Wynflaéth have more than enough embarrassment to last a lifetime now. Moreover, Hannor is closer with you anyway. An answer from the King himself must be quite convincing, don't you think?" She responded as a matter of fact.

Éomer shook his head, his mouth stretched into a flat line, "you should have taken him to the barn when the stallions are servicing the mares!"

"That is gross! I can't believe you said that!"

"It is not! That is how life is created!"

"Tell Hannor that if it sounds all that easy-"

"My Lord Éomer?"

A small knock at the door interrupted them and marked the arrival of the biggest challenge of the day.

"Yes, Éothain?"

"Hannor is here."

"Let him in," he waved off Lothíriel to settle herself in a chair by the table.

"Good morning, Hannor. Come in please."

"Good morning, Lord Éomer."

Éomer watched as the little one made his way and sat himself into a chair.

"Lothíriel said you wanted to ask me something," he pulled his chair closer and poured himself some wine.

"It was about last night."

"What was about last night?" He took the first sip of his wine and saw from the gap that Lothíriel was scrutinising him, even though she tried to appear casual by biting off a small piece of bread very very slowly.

"I thought someone was crying, being beaten and then there was screaming. I think it was Gamling and his wife. I heard they called their names….they were not fighting, were they?"

So it began.

Éomer kept telling himself to just answer the exact questions asked, offer nothing more, not to elaborate too much and definitely not to overshare.

"No, Hannor, no."

"Then why were they screaming and crying this morning?"

He removed the horse pieces from the board set sitting on the table and brought one in front of the boy, asking, "Do you know where baby horses come from?"

"Éothain says the horse mama eats some special grass from Béma that carries the baby horse and the baby horse grows inside the tummy of the horse mama."

"Great help, Éothain!" Éomer cursed under his breath, "Hannor, err, baby horse comes from horse mama but it is not the grass that she eats…she has a horse papa which she…errrr.…" He pushed the rest of the board set away and paraded two four-legged horse figures on the table.

"loves?" Lothíriel chipped in suggestively, shrugging.

"Why are you shrugging?"

"I am not…."

"Yes, so….she has a horse papa which she _loves_. So then they are happy and stay together in their barn and then the baby horse comes!" Éomer turned his attention back to Hannor and placed one of the wooden figures at the rear of the other. One horse was now standing on its rear feet, touching the back of the other. He looked at the wooden objects again and squinted at them. Indecent was an understatement. It all looked so…wrong!

His palm was damp and getting sweaty. "Do you understand now, Hannor?"

Hannor looked at the two carved miniatures with his wide eyes, puzzled.

"Firefoot too?"

Whispering an apology to his best friend in his heart, Éomer gulped, "Yes, Firefoot too….. Someday he will be a horse papa. Do you understand now?"

"Yes! Hmm….Éothain is stupid…..-"

Éomer let out a breath of relief which he had long held but it was too soon.

"-but no….it is weird! Are you sure the baby horse is made that way? Just staying together like that?" Hannor looked at the Horselord expectantly.

"I am absolutely certain. Hannor, look, the same thing can happen with people, with humans. When a man and a woman love each other very much, they get married, like Gamling and Wynlfaéth, they share a bed together…."

"No need to mention the beeeeeed," came the long hiss from behind.

Yes, over-sharing was not required at all!

Éomer looked over his shoulder and gestured at Lothíriel to keep her mouth shut. He was trying to work his mind around here and she could at least show some appreciation of his effort.

"Humans can do it too? In a bed? Gamling and Wynlfaeth are going to have a baby horse?"

"Yesssss…..NO! They are NOT going to have a baby horse!"

He stared deeply into his wine, was thinking hardly how to get their conversation back to the correct track.

"You see horses do it with horses, and humans do it with humans, and they have human babies, not animals! Not puppies, not kittens but real babies."

"Hmm…humans have real babies…." Hannor tried to register the statement, his index finger scratching his little head.

Éomer fought the urge to sigh again in relief. It would be over soon. "Let's do more riding this afternoon, should we? You have not had a rid-"

He tried to move on to another subject but before he could, Hannor asked again, "How do humans do it? Like horses too?"

Instead of answering the boy's increasingly difficult question, Éomer gestured at him to be silent and went quietly to the door. His booted footsteps made no sound when his head reached the bronze knob. With a swift turn, the door slung open. Éomer's glance fell on a squatting figure in front of him at his feet. More precisely, it was a squatting Éothain who had one side of his face positioned against the disappeared wooden panel.

Second time today.

"….."Clamping his jaw tight, Éomer stood wordlessly looking down at his young Marshal. He heard Lothíriel laughing under her covered mouth.

"Errr, good afternoon, My Lord! Ha! It is such a _lovely_ day!" He tried to smile as naturally as he could.

"I see you are obviously guarding my study with all your devoted attention."

"…yeah, of course….why won't I….not do that….you are my King. I _follow_ your orders!"

"If you are so ever thoughtful, maybe you could check with the kitchen to see if lunch is ready. We are all hungry!"

"Aye, right away, Sire! I will see you at lunch and….. have a gooooood time!" With that he shot off.

Éomer dragged his glance across the hall, looking at the men and women who all suddenly appeared very busy. "Nobody comes close to my study until lunch calls!" And he slammed the door shut.

"Where were we, yes, horses and humans…." After forcing a casual pause, he said, "….humans.. that…..that…well….they just do it."

"But how? Standing like horses?" He pointed at the still two awkwardly positioned chess pieces.

Showing the horses was a bad idea.

Éomer's brows knitted and his hand went on the table and flung off the wooden objects of indecent pose.

" Like I said before they have to be in love and they…..ahem…hug each other very close and tight and they….they do it ….in a bed, in their bed and they…..and they…they…." He needed to think of an appropriate word, he needed his wisdom. He reached for his wine cup and took a sip, stalling his time.

"And they scream and say stupid things like harder, deeper and more? Why do they scream?"

He choked at his wine at the boy's words. Patting his chest with his hand, he tried to catch his breath back and cleared his throat before saying, "Uh….sometimes they do that…and it makes them…uh.._comfortable_?" He picked his words with extreme care. Example, he needed an example and it lit immediately in his mind, "exactly the same when you go to the boghouse it makes you feel good after you release all the liquid."

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Lothíriel's shoulders were shaking so violently. She had her both hands covering her mouth, trying hard not to laugh. She was enjoying this. Damn this woman! Eomer shot her another warning glance, "show some gratitude, would you?"

"So they do it in the boghouse, standing and with their trousers down?" Hannor appeared even more confused now with all the new emerging information.

"Oh Béma, no! Hannor, people do it when they are in their bedchamber, LAYING IN THEIR BED! And probably unclothed…naked," he felt the heat building up in his cheeks.

"No need to mention naked, Horsemaster!" she hissed indiscreetly.

"Naked? How can this happen? Men and women can be naked together?" Came the shrieking exclamation. Stunned, Hannor looked at him in disbelief, both hands cupping the face.

"When people are older, _much much much_ _much _older, and they decide under various circumstances, they can be naked….together…but only happens when they love each other very much, remember that…."Ignoring Lothíriel, Éomer directed reply to Hannor.

"How do you know?"

"Believe me, when you grow up, _much much_ _much_ older, and you meet someone, and you really really love her, then you want to do it….in a bed…do you understand?"

His innocent sweet face tilted sideway and he looked at Éomer with his big eyes.

"I don't understand very well...Can I watch next time?"

"NO!" Éomer's face reddened further and he almost roared at Hannor. Releasing that he might have frightened the little boy with his raised volume, his tone softened, "Sorry, I mean that Gamling and his wife would not appreciate it."

It was more difficult than he thought. Maybe he should just have asked Gamling to explain it after all it was not his doing that caused all the stirrings. Damn!

"And you say that people in love do it?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Only people who are in love can do it, Hannor." Lothíriel rephrased the importance of their conversation, taking another sip of her tea.

"Then I can watch you and Lady Lothiriel!"

A gush of almost vapourised liquid sprang in high speed across the small mallorn table, Lothiriel coughed, catching a napkin to dry her mouth and the wet table surface.

Eomer rubbed his forehead with his palm, sweeping off the sweat, his face could not be more red, "OF COURSE NOT! Hannor, you cannot watch, you cannot go and watch anyone while they... for Béma sake, it is rude! People do it when they are alone, it is very private! And they have to be married. They fall in love and then get married. It is between husband and wife... so you don't watch people doing it!"

He found himself repeating the same words. Killing Mûmakil was definitely easier. Just aim and thrust the damn spear. Aim and thrust. They just dropped like flies.

"Then you and Lady Lothíriel are going to get married?"

Hannor's words brought Éomer out of his short-lived reverie.

"Hannor, we are not here to talk about me and Lothíriel."

"But you are in love, are you? All the riders say it."

"I have heard enough…."pushing herself away from the table, Lothíriel felt her heart could not cope anymore with the shocking exchange between the child and the adult.

"Hannor, listen-"

"So I did watch you both doing it!"

"WHAT? No! We did not-"

The sound of leaving footsteps came to an abrupt stop and came back approaching at Éomer's direction. A steam of radiating fury surrounded him and demanded an explanation which he had no time for, "What have you done?"

"Nothing improper!" Grinding his teeth, he replied with absolute certainty at her and turned back to Hannor with solid determination to clarify the misunderstanding, "Hannor, we did not-"

"Yes, you did! You were hugging her very tight that few nights…."

Éomer felt the glare behind him was searing a hole through his tunic.

"Hannor, that was different…"

"…..and you were not wearing a shirt!"

And the deadly silence followed. The curious crowd outside the study heard no more noises. Not that they could hear anything precisely much before for they had been warned to stay away from the study. Then a slamming door startled everyone. And their diplomat from Dol Amroth was seen storming out of their King's study, fuming and grinding her teeth.

Her face was as red as a beet.

She was cursing and swearing.

"I will kill you Éomer!"

"I'm so going to kill you!"

So that was how it ended, leaving Hannor partially dumb folded and feeling guilty that he might have said something wrong and Éomer incapacitated of words to explain his previous action. But all was not vain, lunch time it was.

The dining hall was surprisingly congested today. More tables needed to be brought out and rearranged to accommodate the sudden increase of number.

Hands behind him, Éomer paced into the hall with his young Marshal.

"It seems a little more crowded than usual," Éomer remarked, watching the busy servants moving the furniture about.

"They've all come to learn about the secret!" His Marshal whispered loudly with unhidden anticipation in his voice.

Furrowing his brows, Éomer could not help but shake his head. He walked over to his usual seat and noticed that the riders came pouring in from the front door, filling up the empty seats quickly. And interestingly, most had decided to settle around where Gamling usually sat – Éomer's table. And apparently someone had also decided that the chair next to Gamling's should be left unoccupied too.

Éomer took a sip of some water whilst his eyes surveyed the hall with great attention. Every rider seemed to have his own agenda masking under his face. The trays of dishes made their ways to their designated tables. Breads and butters, vegetables and meats were laid out on the rectangular surface. Pitches of wines sat a few plates away from each other.

Éomer plucked a cherry tomato from the vine bunch. Yes, his country began recovering from the damages, from the hurts and scars of war. So much he had lost in that damned war.

"Some real food finally!" shouted a happy rider on the next table.

He released his glance from the red fruit and shifted it to the dishes in front. Indeed some real food, Erkenbrand had struggled to feed the hundred of mouths whom they rescued a few weeks ago. The food over the past three weeks was not up to the riders' standards. They had to buck up the provisions with additional taters and grains. Diluted flavour -not everyone's favourite.

Stew of Kings. Hmm. By the look of it, Lothíriel had spread her influence over the cooks and chiefs of Helm's Deep as well. He noticed a few of his other preferred dishes were among the served too.

A loud thump drew his hearing.

Lothíriel was grumbling something as she went passed him and sat herself a few chairs away from him.

He opened his mouth, wanting to speak to her but she just ignored him and began filling the bowls on the table with her stew.

So he turned his attention to his Marshal. Signalling Éothain to come to him, he asked, "Where is Gamling? And his wife?"

"I am sure they won't want to make such an early appearance, my Lord." Éothain replied, grinning, with a very meaningful look.

Then a series of loud, high-pitched whistles echoed in the dining hall. Many sitting riders now stood up and waved their hands. Some even clapped and raised their tankards and mugs.

"Well done, Gamling!"

"You still have it, old man!"

"Cheers!"

"You are my idol, Sir!"

"Rock and roll, Marshal!"

"Wild wild night, Gamling!"

"I salute you, Sir!"

Éomer stood up and saw Gamling pushing his way through with Wynflaéth behind him. Her head was as low as it could be. She wrapped a shawl around her head and neck to hide her embarrassment but it was not sufficient. Her face was redder than a ground cherry tomato.

Éomer rubbed his temple and sighed helplessly at the people's reaction. Then he felt something pointy at his rib cage. He turned around and saw Lothíriel elbowing him. She leaned forward and whispered, "Get your men in order before Gamling and Wynflaéth decide to jump off the wall!"

"Enough, people!"

That did not work. Even Éothain who was standing next to him and definitely heard him, chose to adhere to the crowd's reaction.

"Silence."

They still ignored him.

"SILENCE!" There was inevitable warning in his voice this time.

The crowd stopped their cheers and applauds as if they were struck by a bucket of cold water. Some even complained beneath their breaths, "Éomer King is no fun!"

"Show some respect to your Marshal!" He glared from table to table, before speaking in a milder toner, "Let's have lunch, Riders. The food is good today!"

"Aye!" cheered the crowd.

"My Lord, I-" Gamling greeted him in a very apologetic tone.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of, Gamling! Hold your head proud!" he said in a firm tone.

The lunch began and finished without any more surprises to Éomer's relief. The only slight annoying thing was that Lothíriel was now sitting five chairs away from him and been avoiding and refusing to communicate with him like he was a horsefly.

Later at night.

The day had been so long, he thought. He had a ride in the afternoon with Firefoot and by the time he caught up the happening in Rohan with Erkenbrand after dinner, it was already late. He had a wash and went for a stroll to calm his mind before returning to his chamber and found Éothain standing outside, tapping his foot impatiently.

At the sight of his King, Éothain hurried to his King and whispered, "You have a visitor!"

"Who?" A questioning eyebrow lifted. Éothain's low voice made Éomer suspicious.

"You will see!" Grinning, he pushed his King quietly almost to the door and made another gleeful whisper, "don't make too_ much _noise! People might _hear_ you!"

With that he quickened his steps and disappeared from the dim hallway.

Baffled, Éomer dragged his gaze from the hall way back to his chamber. There under the flickering torches, Lothíriel had her back to him. She had not heard him. She stood in front of his armour stand. She scrutinised the reddish brown armour with deep thoughts. She took a step closer and allowed her fingers to slide along horsehead nose-guard and edge of the cheek plates of his helm.

"Éomer, son of Éomund," she whispered as she examined the engrossed writing across a repaired crack-line on the burnished metal surface.

He felt his heart missed a beat when she called out his name. Yes, she spoke it out accurately in Rohirric. In fact she had been speaking in Rohirric since the day she had been rescued. She talked to his men in Rohirric. She spoke to Wynflaéth in Rohirric. She communicated with the cooks in Rohirric. In fact, it became so reasonably normal than he did not actually notice she stopped conversing in Westron. Yes, he did not notice that she had blended herself so well into his way of living.

His pair of green irises followed her movement. She looked almost delicate – a word which he never associated her with. Her fingers brushed along the textured surface of his chest plate. He had to look away momentarily to break himself from formulating the imaginary thought of feeling her fingers on his chest.

Returning his gaze, she was now in front of his weapon stand. His green shield was sitting at the foot. Gúthwinë was hanging idly on the horse-engraved wooden rack. She lifted her only free left hand and glide along the strap of his sword belt. She slipped her four fingers beneath the leather strap, allowing her thumb to run on the surface along the length of the red baldric, before it came to stop at the buckle. She scratched the double bronze horseheads with her thumb lightly and a small smile touched her lips, "Horse-lords."

She said it in Westron this time.

Her loose hair slipped over her back as she leaned forward. She was looking at his sword with great regard. Her hand was lying on the scabbard and sailing over the length of it. She scratched again the bronze throat lightly with her fingernail. Her pale fingers lifted and found the bronze pommel of his sword. She drew herself even closer and analysed every detail on the weapon. Her index finger followed the engraved coiling horse heads which formed the guard, not missing every curve and groove of the mouth, nose, eye, ear and mane. Her eyes were full of admiration for the tactile craft of his people. Then she stretched her fingers and wrapped them around the leather-bond grip. He remembered her fingernails were always trimmed short and neat and her fingers appeared blunter than most noblewomen.

"Gúthwinë."

He heard her whispering the name of his sword.

"...…..Éomer."

It was a very low mutter. He only managed to catch his name.

Her clasp on Gúthwinë tightened as she prepared to unsheathe it.

Then he decided it was time to stop her.

"Lothíriel."

**TBC**

**A little of romance scene in next chapter, but only for those aged 15 and above.**

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><p><em><strong><span>Footnotes:<span>**_

**Scabbard:** Sheath for swords.

**Baldric:** Sword belt

**Boghouse**: Toilet

**Horse mating:** Position-wise, like most animals, standing, and another *ahem" humping the other! (Google if you must!)

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><p><strong>A big hug and wet kiss to all my reviewers! I have enjoyed writing this chapter from the first word until the very last! Woho!<strong>

**BrightWatcher:** You should have known! Being a married woman, eh! I checked the DVD a few times and the book too, apparently only window of Helm's Deep I have seen from the movie - there is no glass panel or curtain...here goes all the echo!

**Talia119:** I used a line of your review in this chapter :D Hope you like it!

**b5delenn:** Exactly, at least children of Rohan grow up knowing the reproduction of horses but Hannor won't get it! I hope you like the way I put it all together! I actually youtubed a video of horses mating...errr...won't recommend it!

**xmmara:** Old men still rock, girl! ;)

**Lucy:** No problem! Just keep pouring the reviews in! :D

**Ranawe217:** yeah I was thinking about assigning this task to Gamling but the poor man has to endure so much, I will let him off the hook this time! Nevertheless, thank you for the idea though ;) Much appreciated!

**cCeret:** Don't worry about your language! English is my third too! Yeah those husbands and wives...Mr and Mrs is much easier to group them up!

**Hope you all have enjoyed this chapters and please do not forget to leave a review! Thank you! :D**


	25. Rekindling the Flame

**Not recommended for readers aged 15 and below!**

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><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

_**Chapter 25: Rekindling the Flame**_

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><p><strong><em>CLANK!<em>**

Gúthwinë, partially unsheathed, fell out of its red scabbard and made a loud thud as it met the stone floor.

She startled, her feet taken aback and footing slightly unsteady. She turned and found Éomer standing at the door. The shadow of the hallway cloaked his face in the dark. She could not see his expression.

"Sorry," she held her hand against herself and stepped aside. A light flow of embarrassment flashed across her face. Curiosity kills a cat. She should not have touched anything without permission.

She watched as he entered the room with the door whisper-shut behind him. He leaned forward to collect his sword. The pure weight of the sword was straining her wrist when she tried to pull it out. But he managed with such ease. It was not the first time she had seen him with his sword but every occasion of it just increasingly deepened her mystifying attraction to him.

"Nothing to be sorry for," he simply replied whilst whipping Gúthwinë in a fluid motion.

"It is a good sword."

"It is," he held it up; his eyes swept the length of it, from tip to its guard. He remarked absently, "it is my father's."

"How did he…." She released her gaze from his weapon and settled it on him.

"Ocrs!" He grimaced, clenching his teeth at the cursed word. His lips pulled into a bitter twist as he slid Gúthwinë back into its sheath. "He was ambushed by Orcs in Emyn Muil. I had just passed my eleventh summer when his men brought his body back to Aldburg. He would ride against his enemies in hot anger; unwarily and often only take a few men with him. The Orcs hid in the rocks, waited for him to pass and slain him. My mother was deeply grieved."

He looked no more than a child who tried recollecting the residual memories of his parents. She had a sudden urge to pull him into her arms and embrace him.

"There was not a single day that she did not blame herself over his death," he breathed and looked away trying to hide the brief weakness in his voice.

"Why is that so?"

The bitter twist returned to his mouth, his thumb rubbing the bronze horsehead guard which she just laid her finger on a few moments ago. "She dreamed of Gúthwinë dripping in blood before the night before my father left to pursue the Orcs. She thought it was just a dream. It was only after the news of his death reached Aldburg that she realised it was a foresight. A warning which she failed to acknowledge. Ever since that day, she could not forgive herself that she was responsible for his death. Even Uncle could do nothing to lessen her grieve. Soon she took ill and died."

Eyes widened, she braced her chest for a sudden gasp of air. She had the same dream. The night before he left for Snowbourn. The horror of the images returned. The sound of liquid dripping and the taste of iron rushed back, flooding all her sense. How could this be? Strength left her legs suddenly, she reached for the nearest object to stabilise her weakened footing.

"I did not know you could read runes," he said whilst inspecting the inscription on his helm which she just paid great attention to.

"Only your name-"

At her words, he turned immediately to look at her. She covered her mouth at the same instance realising the words that had just left her lips and turned her head away. She dared not meet his eyes. She must have lost her mind to say something so bold and she did not intend to sound so _intimate_.

As the quiet stretched out, she felt her face begin to flame with embarrassment, suddenly mute when she desperately needed words to get her out of this situation.

"What can I help you with?" A straight eyebrow arched, demanding the reason to explain her presence in his chamber.

She almost forgot why she brought herself here. She straightened her back and leaned against the table,"I wish to…" inhaling and exhaling deeply to replenish some of her lost courage, "….apologise for my outburst today."

"Oh?"

He drew distance between them a little further and landed his weight partially on the long edge of the table, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes closed.

"Hannor told me that…," she explained, casting her gaze to her lap where her hands brutally twisted the fabric of her robe. "…I was very feverish and shivered of cold at the same time...and….and you did what you deemed necessary to…"she dragged her eyes to look at him momentarily before returning them to her lap and her voice became barely audible. "…keep me warm."

The unexplained ambiguity in the air deepened as time passed. The crackling of the fire pit continued to sing in the silence.

"Thank you."

"You should thank Erkenbrand. He was the one who drained the water out of you. I know nothing of that art."

"I did!" she hastened to insert and then added in a slower tone, "I thanked him this afternoon. I spoke and thanked many people this afternoon."

"How is your shoulder?"

He decided to change the subject.

"It is better."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, I don't see the need to hold my hand in a bandage anymore. But the healers keep insisting," she reached out her free hand to lift the bandage over her head and removed her left from the linen cloth. Her left hand went free and she swayed it in front of her, "you see I can even lift it without too much-"

As her hand went out of her sight, she found his huge frame standing right in front of her. Her sentence stayed unfinished. She looked up only to meet his blazing gaze. His eyes had a troubling effect on her. Same as his chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat, for he did not take his eyes from her as he moved even nearer. She could see her own reflection in his amber eyes in which the flickering flame still danced.

The sheer aura dissipating from him was an invisible pressure. It compressed her space, thickening the sheer power and intimidation hanging in the air. This feeling was hauntingly familiar.

Suddenly she felt shy, uncertain of herself. She lowered her head, tearing her eyes away from him, and tried to settle her thought on any object in the room. She held her breath as she felt his free hand brush her loose locks to one side. She could smell him. That earthy and intoxicating scent swirled her mind wild. Her heart was hammering erratically beneath her chest. So loud that she could hear the beating in her ears.

"Lothíriel…" his voice, like always, was rich and dark, almost hypnotising.

His minted breaths blew on her face.

Chewing her lower lip, she dragged her eyes back away from whatever object they were on before to the little floor space between their feet. Her eyes caught the sight of his boots. Large, dark brown they were. The leathers were scratched and lined, evidence of long use and wear. His leggings were just the usual greenish brown pair that he always wore but she shuddered at the pure size and apparent power of his long legs. Had they always been this toned? She found her usual courage slipping away from within, but she forced herself to raise her head, studying the expanse of his torso and shoulders, not missing the length of his arms. They were covered in a beige cotton fabric of a typical night shirt. He had not had his usual tunic on and the laces of his shirt were left unfastened. The solid contours and muscular definition of his exposed chest and flesh further unsettled her. That chest always and still held a maddening appeal to her. Her cheeks were burning and the heat escalated with the thoughts of how she had buried herself in it, craving the warmth from it, when she was still unconscious.

She tightened the lacing of her fingers in her lap. Forcing her gaze to travel the length of him to his throat, her courage plunged and she stared straight into his eyes. She let out the long-held breath as she continued to admire the man before her eyes. Tall, muscular, profound in his physical perfection – she could not find any flaw in him tonight that would lessen the desire she felt building up from within.

"Lothíriel…"he called again, sliding his knuckles on her cheek. The dim of the night cast a gold sheen on her pale skin.

Eyes closed, she did not know if it was a reaction or instinct but her hand enveloped his hand which was on her face, and she brushed her cheek against his palm. A strong hand slipped beneath her hair at the back of her neck. His hand was huge, with the four fingers pressing lightly just beneath her hairline and the thumb following the edge of her jaw.

Warm air blowing on her face became denser. A calloused finger glid upwards from her throat to her chin, lifting it up.

The anticipation grew stronger and reckless with each beat of her heart, with each second.

She felt his moist lips lightly touched hers. They were warm and gentle.

Her breath was dying with every moment passed.

He broke away briefly and whispered, "Breath…"

Just as she gasped enough for a lungful of air, he sealed her lips with another kiss. This time more passionate yet still tender.

His hand now furled again around her neck, bringing her closer to him. His scent lingered, seeping into every pore of her skin. She felt another strong band coil around her waist, straightening her body; bringing her onto her feet as the distance between them became almost non-existent.

She braved herself and followed the call of her body. She pushed herself into him, kissing him back from his upper lip, slowly to his lower lip. Slipping under the cotton fabric, her hands travelled the length of his body, from his abdomen to his chest, feeling every scar and scratch. Her mind was racing in a dark sea. Her heart screamed with mad delight that she could not defy.

He paused very briefly, slightly surprised, then he deepened his kiss, growing fiercer and more demanding. His body was burning raw and his embrace tightened further. She felt the tingling sensation that brought about by his touch or grazing of his beard.

The hand on the back of her neck slipped into the collar of her robe. She could hear the knots of her robe popping off one by one. The chill of air touched her bare skin and sent goose pimples spreading over it. Her fingers dug into his thick blond mane as he trailed his flaming tongue along her jaw line and her throat. She threw her head back and arched herself forward whilst a soft moan escaped from her swollen lips.

This was mad. Truly mad and so wrong yet she could not resist.

Encouraged, he crushed her body to his, shovelling her back against the wall, drinking deeply each inch of warmth on her skin and breathing in her scent.

"What have you done to me..." he whispered breathlessly, kissing the back of her ear.

Every nerve within her resonated at the bliss of his touch. Her breaths ran quick and shallow under his weight.

The moist trailed along the smooth skin of her shoulders and down to her collar bones. It quickly became a path of cold patches when the night air brushed against her flesh.

His hair tangled in her fingers as he buried his head in her chest. Her heart beat roared like thunder in his ears. Her pulse was thudding and racing as rapid as his. His free hand brushed against the exposed velvety and glid along the curvy contour of her frame. His lips nipped her pale skin and left a burning trace on the upper swells of her breasts. He wanted more tonight. Much more. It was frightening.

The fervour of desire threatened to vanquish the last remains of his rationale. He must stop. This wasn't right. He should not be treating her like this. Yet the more he went against his will, the stronger the waves of desire washed over him.

His hand swept along her hip, brushing gently against her inner thighs. Her thighs were strong and supple. Not soft as he presumed. His fingers followed the curve of her leg back to her waist and travelled down her backbone. Every part of her was so well defined. Every curve moulded into his palms so perfectly. Every inch was so addictive. He let his hand slide down and cupped her bottom. She let out a hoarse whisper and lifted her leg up as a response. It nearly consumed every restraint that was left in him. He dropped his hands on her hips and pulled her legs around his waist.

Her eyes flew open instantly as her first experience - feeling his burning masculine desire beneath the interlaying fabrics, struck her: foreign, unfamiliar, something she was completely unaccustomed to. Flash of fear surfaced among the humming pleasure that still lingered in her eyes. He pushed her legs down and wrapped his arm around her waist to support her footing. His other hand pulled her head towards him and rested it against his warm chest.

They had gone too far.

Almost.

"We must not continue…." he mumbled with bated breaths, a hand stroking her sleek hair.

He looked down and saw guilty consternation flashed across her face. Her body shivered.

"I…," he said as he breathed in the pine scent of her hair, "….am sorry…"

It was wrong enough to let her stay in his chamber for all this time, let alone taking advantage of her. He was not brought up this way.

"I can't do this to you," he explained, "…..not without your father's consent."

He felt her arms wrapped tightly around him and she brushed her cheek against his chest. A soft smile touched her face. Her eyes were brimming with glistering mist.

"Éowyn's wedding is soon. Wait until fall."

He finally made a reassurance. Her heart burst of joyous relief. She squeezed her eyes tight; a trail of glittering liquid fell off her cheek.

His calloused fingers caressed her shoulder gently. He paused briefly when they touched the raised bump. His index finger followed the shape of it- a horseshoe, from one end to the other, back and forth. She could hear him grinding his teeth; his breaths became swallow and quick and his body stiffened.

"It does not hurt anymore….. you've killed him."

"Once! Only once!" he said bitterly, "in my dream, I kill him over and over again every night! A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves."

She heard the anger rising in his voice. She broke herself off from his embrace and looked into his blazing irises. So much anger. So much grieve. She caressed his face fondly. "It is over."

"No! It isn't! Not until every outlaw is slain, every Orc is burnt! I wish not to see any walking alive on my land."

There was tightness around his jaw.

Orc hunter was what Enkerbrand called him as she recollected the conversation she had with the West-fold Marshal that afternoon.

"Éomer…."

"Let's stop talking about this," he pulled her robe together and began to fasten the knots on her robe. His voice returned to its normal tone. "You should return to your chamber soon. People might talk." He brushed away her loose tendrils and paused for a moment, hesitated before saying, "…. and you might want to wear something with high collar tomorrow."

"Oh!" The long absent blush returned to her cheeks. Clutching her collar, she rose onto her feet and tried to blink away the embarrassment.

"Good night," she hurried a bow and took her leave.

Éomer waited long after her receding footsteps were gone. He headed into the empty hallway. At the end, it stood a tall figure which was hardly noticeable without trained eyes. He approached the figure without making any noise and asked, "Anything?"

"She came around, lurking behind the pillar over there," with a hand on his sword, Éothain pointed at the pillar diagonally across the hall, "and left after an hour."

"As I expected," Éomer turned around, ready to return to his chamber.

"So?"

His steps halted.

"What?" An eyebrow arched at the question.

"How did it go?"

Éomer furrowed his thick brows and glimpsed at his bodyguard over his shoulder. He let out a sigh of disbelief, shaking his head.

"Did you both make any advancement?"

"What sort of advancement are you hoping to hear?" Éomer asked back.

"I did not hear any noise. I am worried…"

"That I might kill her?"

"That you might _crush_ her…." Éothain beamed a comical grin at his King, lifting his brows up and down.

"You are hopeless," he shook his head again, "I am going to sleep."

"No advancement?" Éothain continued his persistent curiosity.

"Go to bed, Éothain."

With that he paced towards his chamber. He could hear the painfully suppressed laughter from behind.

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><p>The morning and days that followed after marked the significant change in the air. Éothain was quite certain something happened that night. The tension between the Lady of Dol Amroth and his King just varnished as if it never existed before. However not everyone was pleased. All but one. He had seen Moriel grinding her teeth or cursing in disgust whenever Lothíriel was near Éomer. There was nothing much Moriel could do after Éomer rejected her that night. Éothain found himself grinning in triumph every time he caught her jealous and envied by the presence of Lothíriel.<p>

Upon their return to Edoras, Éomer immediately announced a few new additions to his household. Édhere, the last remaining rider of the Snowbourim éored, had been temporarily assigned as Lothíriel's guard, until his return to Snowbourn. Wynflaéth was officially made the head of the maids of Meduseld. But the last decision came as a surprise for everyone. Éothain remembered it was at dining time that his King told them.

"From tomorrow onwards, Lady Lothíriel will move into Meduseld," he announced it casually, ignoring all the open jaws across the hall, he turned to the older woman next to Gamling and said, "Wynflaéth, please see to it that everything is in order."

A few of his men exchanged questioning looks among each other. Low mutterings were heard across the hall. Elfhelm, who had came to investigate the Dunlending incident, gestured at his men to keep quiet. He oversaw the running of Meduseld while Éomer was Edoras.

"My Lord!" Lothíriel stood up immediately. "There is no need for such hassle. I am content with my present quarter."

"Sit down please. My Lady."

"But, my Lord. This is truly unnecessary. If there is anyone that should move into Meduseld, surely it will have to be your Quee-" she hastened to defend so quickly that words slipped unexpectedly from her mouth.

She bit her tongue, embarrassed by what she had just said.

He released his gaze from the dish in front of him, before turning to her, "my decision is final. Éothain and Édhere will help with moving your procession tomorrow."

When the first day of the day touched the blossomed plains of Rohan, Éothain and Édhere were already up, helping Wynflaéth to clean and clear out a chamber.

"This is quite a nice room. Still tidy and well kept even after being left vacant for so man-many-ye-years," Wynfléath remarked, coughing, as she brought down the dust-covered curtains and replaced them with a clean pair of ivory.

Éothain pushed the windows open. The morning sun immediately spread its warm wing into the otherwise stark and cold chamber. The fresh of spring replenished the lifeless air. The chamber was not a simple four-walled box. The windows faced eastward with an extended floor space to accommodate a dark ash table and a bench. The rich woodwork decorated the walls and pillars with an interlacing pattern of gold sheen which wove along the standing wooden panels.

Édhere moved an armour stand to another corner and began sweeping off the dust from a nearby dresser. The dresser, unlike the long table, carried a lighter shade and was composed of four tiers of drawers.

"How is the cleaning going?" A tall figure stood leaning against the door.

"Good morning, Marshal Elfhelm!" The trio exclaimed.

"I never thought I would step into this chamber again. It is still the same as I remember it," the grey-haired Marshal stepped in, regarding each object in the chamber with nostalgia.

"Was this your room?"

"Nah! But I visited this room many times with Grimbold and Théodred…."he paused with sadness surfacing from his wrinkled eyes, remembering the friends he lost in battle, "…well…when they were still alive."

The silence spread and everyone became quiet.

The Lord of the East-Mark marched around the sunlit chamber, tapping his aged hand on each panel of the wooden wall.

"It feels like yesterday that I dragged a particular young boy who tried to sneak into any skirmishes back then," a faint smile crossed his face, "Bema's knows, how many times he had bribed my men to hide him behind their horseback! How many times Théodred and Grimbold had to drag him back here! I've lost counts how many times Théoden ordered Háma to guard this door!"

He took a closer look at the armour stand, too small for an adult; it almost looked like a rack for child's play.

"I thought I recall this. So Théodred did make a set of small armour for him."

He continued his steps and looked out from the window, seemingly whispering to himself, "Éomund, my Marshal, my Captain, if you had lived to see the deeds of your son, you would be so proud. So so proud, my old friend."

"This is Lord Éomer's room?"

He turned to look at the younger rider.

"_Was_. It was his room until he joined the éored. Théoden King fostered him and his sister after their parents died."

"Ahhhh," Éothain sat on the empty bed frame, "I remember my first day as an esquire, and he was already a Seargent. Taught me everything, polishing my sword, shooting a dart from horseback. And we went for my first skirmish after that. I had not seen anyone as deathly as him on a battlefield."

"The most efficient Orc-hunters the Riddermark ever breeds - his father and he! He inherits much of his father's quality. Hot-headed, bold, fierce and frighteningly similar in appearance and build. Sometimes, when I look at the way he thrusts a spear; I have the impression that my Captain is alive again before my very eyes."

As a few of them dwelled in their past memories, a light knock on the door broke the momentarily silence.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, my Lady, I must apologise. The room is not ready. We will need to replace all the furni-"

Lothíriel cut off the older woman, "No. This is fine. Leave everything as it is. I don't need many things. These will suffice."

Unknown to them, she overheard their conversation. So this was his room. She strolled around the chamber, letting her fingers slid along the dresser and the short armour stand.

"Éothain, Édhere, if you could please kindly carry my chests for me? They are outside the cottage."

Elfhelm watched the two young men leaving the chamber, before bowing to both the women, "I must take my leave too, my Lady. There is still much to discuss with Gamling before I return to Aldburg tomorrow."

"I hope to see you at lunch, Lord Elfhelm," she curtsied at the old Marshal.

"You will. Have a good day."

"I am afraid I will have to leave you alone for a while, Lady Lothíriel. I will need to get a new mattress and some auroch-pelts."

She watched the older woman nodding and disappearing from the hallway. Only then she let out a breath that she did not know she was holding for so long. So the chamber was once his. It made her nervous again as the scent of his belongings lingered once more in the air.

Feeling the glare from behind, she turned around.

"I hope it is not too disappointing. Or, is it?" he asked as he entered his previous chamber.

That was just so him. Typical his way of asking and faring people. It never began with 'do you like it….or what do you like…'

"It is just fine," she lit a soft smile.

"Wynflaéth is getting a new mattress and some pelts. Édhere and Éothain, the donkeys, have gone to carry my chests," she added, snickering at her own words.

"You don't have much I presume."

He leaned against the dresser, legs and arms crossed. He wore his full armour today. She guessed he would probably go out for a ride later with his men.

"Not really," she went around the bed frame and came in front of him. Brushing away the loose blond bands in front of his forehead that missed the knot of his half pony tail, she looked into his hazel-green eyes. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"I decide what I deem appropriate."

"People will question why has their King allowed a female with no apparent connection to dwell in the Golden Hall."

"That connection is mine to define," he glanced at her from head to toe, "…some day."

She slipped her hands around his neck, pulling him closer. He being in full armour had always been her weakness. Tiptoeing, she could not resist. "Éo-"

"Cough!"

The pair broke away instantly. Éomer came in front of her, shielding her with his tall frame.

Her face flamed with embarrassment. She wished she could just varnish into thin air now. Valar's sake! What was she doing? Kissing their King in broad daylight? In a chamber with open door! Stupid! Stupid she was!

"What?"

Éothain stood, digging the heel of his boot. The other rider just kept his eyes on the chest that they were carrying, tracing the hardened leather seam along the edge. Obviously Éothain was the more courageous one. "Hmm….where do you want your chests, my Lady?"

Lothíriel inhaled deeply to brave herself. "Over the large dresser, please, Éothain."

"I will leave you to it."

The King of the Mark left the trio.

"Argghhh, they are heavy!" he complained as he dragged them into her chamber.

She rushed over to where they were resting her chests. "Be careful. They are paintings, drawings, journals, lores and tomes. They are very precious!"

"Books?"

Éothain looked at her, disbelief. He went to the door and pointed at the few other chests lying on the floor, "Are you saying you have six HUGE chest of books?"

"I'm sorry."

Lothíriel forced a weak smile as the two men whom she just called donkeys dragged another brown chest into her chamber.

"I've seen women with chests of clothes. Not women with chests of books…." Éothain continued his unhappy mumbling.

"I am sorry, Éothain! I know they are heavy."

"They are more than heavy!" said the young Marshal, swiping the sweat off his forehead.

"I promise your effort will be rewarded! I will make sure the kitchen prepare something good today," she tried her bribery skill.

"You better do, 'cause these are damn heavy!"

Lothíriel smiled again at her friend. How she had grown to love this piece of land and the people!

Éothain soon found that the 'attempted assault' on his King was soon becoming one of the common sights in Edoras. Sometimes he would creep behind his King and laugh at the pair. One such instance included the busy kitchen of Meduseld.

She worked her busy fingers around the worktop, slicing the onions, dicing the chicken, kneading the pastry…..

His King would stand at the entrance, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He studied her slender figure while she darted between the stove, the oven and the work top. One second, she would curse because the fire in the oven was too small and start pumping more air with a leather bellow. Another second, she would take a sip of the gravy from the cooking pot, taste it and talk to herself. The next second she would flatten a dough and spread with a rolling pin.

Sometimes Éomer would remind her if things went amok.

"Your stove is burning."

"Your pie has leaked."

"You forgot to flip your steaks."

"You have not added any salt."

She, in response, would forbid him from disturbing her.

"Get out!"

"Don't touch that!"

"It is for the children!"

"Don't dip your finger in it!"

Of course, Éothain was not the only curious one. He quickly found his companions.

He was hiding behind one of the terrace but he saw Éomer leaving the orphanage with Lothíriel. His mighty King was smiling and he had a broken bench over his shoulder. They headed towards the Middenvale, probably looking for one of the woodworkers to repair the bench.

Éothain was laughing when a stone went flying at him. He ducked it. Then another came. He ducked again. Another came again. He ducked again. Behind him, he heard a thud sound, repeating twice. He looked up and saw Éomer pointing a warning finger at him. And he turned to look behind and saw two poor riders, groaning, each with a dent in their helmets: Édhere and Stán. The trio shared a laugh and continued spying on their King.

But unknown to Éothain, the happy days would soon fade when a letter from Dol Amroth arrived in Edoras just three days before they left for Osigiliath.

* * *

><p>Standing next to the firepit, Lothíriel watched with brimming tears as the crackling fire melted the letter.<p>

That letter arrived in the afternoon, addressed to her, a seal of a trout on it. It was the emblem of the house of her deceased mother. The one that her youngest brother promised to use _only_ when there was an urgency afoot.

Only when it was a matter of life and death.

She squeezed her eyes at the flying embers.

The flame devoured the parchment until the last word which was still visible for a very short moment before it turned into ashes.

The last word read: **_poison_**.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

-A debate that leads into disagreement between Éomer and Lothíriel.

-Lothíriel goes to extreme measure to remove the boar-tusk bracelet that she received as a Yule gift (which was presented in the least polite way!)

-Wedding of Éowyn and Faramir. First visit to the Ford of Éowyn.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Footnotes:<strong>_

_**Ford of Éowyn:**_As described in Karen Wynn Fonstad's book.

**_Éowyn's presence after burial of her uncle:_** Lore-wise, she spends most of her time in Minas Tirith with Faramir, overseeing the construction of her new home (you can look at at the Council of Elrond forum if you wish). In medieval times, engaged couples are considered married.

**_Éo_**_**mer King or King **_Éo_**mer?**_ This depends on the context of your story. If it is set in Rohan and speaking in the language and culture of Rohirrim, it would be **_Éo_**_**mer King**_ (Note that Rohirric is based on Old English/Anglo-Saxon. O.E. is very different from modern English). If it is in common speech aka Westron, then it is _**King **_Éo_**mer**_.

_**Author's note:**_

I have nothing else to say :p except that I re-edited the whole romance scene to make it less lemon and more romantic...if it is any...

And I think I have tortured them enough. They damn well deserve some good days together :P

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><p>Another big thank you for all the reviews I received for last chapter! It is always overwhelming to know someone out there, somewhere in a corner of the world, behind a screen, is reading your work and appreciates your work enough to drop a review! THANK YOU!<p>

**xmmara**: Hannor is amazing! There will be an emotional exchange betwen him and Lothíriel next chapter.

**Talia119**: With all the screams and shouts, I see no reason why he won't be the new idol of the Rohirrim :p (or maybe Éomer could try to surpass him...)

**BrightWatcher**: I hope this is not too lemon! ;) I tried to be as vague as possible...

**average-ninja**: I did not stop! I continue! :)

**JMBM**: Oh I hope this chapter will grant your husband another 20mins to do his programming! ;)

**b5delenn**: Exactly! It is hard to contain when the urge is strong! I hope you like the romantic moment in this chapter!

**cCeret**: Some of the great ideas of the reproduction scene came from my great reviewers! :D

**Dr.l_ust**: (for some reason, FF net does not like the word l.u.s.t)That last scene of Chapter 24 is my favourite too! Only a woman in love can be so gentle with the belongings of the man she loves!

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><p><strong>Please review! I still and always welcome any sort of comments regarding my grammar or spelling etc!<strong> **Thank you!**


	26. The Whispered Admission

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

_**Chapter 26: The Whispered Admission**_

* * *

><p><strong>~Better late than never~<strong>

* * *

><p>May 3020 T.A.<p>

Edoras

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails where softly-burning sun appears, waking the birds. The first light of the day was embraced by morning song of chirps.

Éomer walked down the stoned steps to the direction of Middenvale. Among the fenced field, he saw Édhere talking to one of the farmer's lady.

"Good morning, Sire."

"Good morning, Édhere," he replied the greeting, nodding at the young man. He raised his head over the horizon, squinting his eyes when the sun ray blinded him.

"Lady Lothíriel is down in the chicken coop."

It seemed the guard knew well he was looking for the lady Édhere was responsible of.

"Chicken coop?"

He arched an eyebrow at the rider. He could see the amusement leaking from Édhere's polite smile.

"Aye."

Éomer pushed through the vegetable yard and unlocked the fenced door. There he saw her standing among the feathered balls clucking and pecking around her feed as she threw the corn and barley feed out in a wide swath. She let out a hearty laugh when a bird pecked at her brown riding boot.

"Don't be so greedy! There is no more!" she said, swinging the empty basket upside down and shaking the last residue of the deed. "You lot are too fat! You eat too much!"

There were more than thirty laying hens with a few roosters.

"Now you have your food. It is time for my reward." She clapped her hand against the basket. A few birds flew out of her way. Then she pushed the barn door open and extended her arm into the wooden housing.

"Eggs, eggs, eggs!"

She hummed a song as she gathered the eggs for the breakfast.

He watched her hair flying in the spring wind, stretching like black feathers of raven. A sudden wave of adoration swamped his heart. What was that overflowing warmth that was stroking every nerve of his body? He did not notice the corners of his lips curling upwards.

"My Lord Éomer?"

"Yes, Éothain?"

He answered without turning back.

"Everything is ready."

"Excellent. We will head out after breakfast."

About half an hour later, everyone was seated in the Golden Hall.

"Farmer Barwick's wife says they have a few geese good enough for dinner table when summer comes," Éothain remarked casually.

Farmer Barwick was known to breed good poultry. The cheese they had for cheese-rolling festival came from him and his forefathers.

"How many do they have?" Lothíriel asked, accepting the cooked eggs from a serving maid.

"Around thirty and increasing, I think. Sufficient for our summer feast!"

"All you think about is food!" Éomer flicked an eggshell at him.

"Éomer King, a man cannot defend his land and _woman_ with an empty stomach!" Éothain defended.

Éomer shot a glare at him when Éothain emphasized the word. That earned a few snickers at the table. Éomer threw a glimpse at Lothíriel who quickly sipped her cup of tea and looked away.

This had been a typical morning breakfast at Meduseld now. His entire household would sit together for each meal and interesting conversation often came uninvited.

"Gamling, how is Háleth doing?"

The King of the Mark turned to his advisor to break the short silence.

"He is getting there. He had his first archery test yesterday. I must say I am impressed. Blood of Háma flows true in that boy."

The huge grin on his and his wife's face surely spoke the pride. Since their return from Helm's Deep, the older couple had decided to foster Háma's son. Gamling had every intention to train Háleth to follow his father's footstep – to be Éomer's doorwarden.

"Good. Very good," Éomer took a pause before asking, "so is the cottage sufficient for three of you?"

"My Lord, it is more enough-"

Éomer did not give the old man to a chance to decline.

"If it is in any case too small, I am offering you a bigger dwelling. The new ones under construction just east of Meduseld…"

And reservation came in his voice.

"My Lord?"

"…I've caught quite a few keen esquires last night lurking in your garden," Éomer said quietly and calmly, biting a piece of butter-spread butter while trying to appear casual, "…and people heard you last few nights _again_."

Everyone straightened up immediately at his words despite the casual tone. Éomer did not look at Gamling or Wynflaéth when he spoke but he could almost hear the hard swallow that Wynflaéth just forced down her throat. Her blushed face was probably completely submerged in her soup now. For a few moments, only clanking of cutlery was audible.

"So, perhaps, you would like to reconsider my offer. The new hut is made of stones and walls lined with heavy tapestries and curtains. I am sure Háleth would appreciate that too."

Everyone was trying painfully to act normal and neutral. Of course, it was not the first time they had this conversation at the breakfast table. But every time it was brought up, it still had the same effect as the first time they were told. The only difference was that – there were more audience this time and Éomer did not seem to mind and just spoke it as frankly as a daily subject, although it was still practised with some degree of precaution.

Red-faced, Gamling and Wynflaéth just kept their mouths shut, not knowing what to say at all. It was hard to curb their yearning sometimes. And whenever the spark was ignited, there was no turning back.

"I am sure Gamling and Wynflaéth would appreciate it," Lothíriel quickly spoke up for the poor couple. Beneath the table, she gave the person opposite her a kick but his back faced her, his shoulder shaking violent. Éothain was trying hard not to laugh in front of the table.

Then came another egg shell at him. Éomer sighed and decided to change the subject.

"I am taking a few older boys out today."

She turned to him, her hand in midair. "What are you planning to do?"

"The weather looks promising. I guess a few lessons on hunting won't hurt."

He reached out to accept the egg she was preparing for him.

"Any animals in particular?" she asked, spreading some butter on a piece of bread.

"I doubt we would find anything. Maybe hares or squirrels if we are lucky. June is in a few days and we won't be here and they won't have anything to do until we are back from Mundberg. Besides, they are old enough to learn a thing or two about survival."

They were planning to spend a month in Minas Tirith, two weeks before and after Éowyn's wedding.

"Do you want to join us?" He asked, sipping his coffee.

No reply. He turned to her. Her eyes were locked absently on the teapot on the table.

"Lothíriel?" He waved his big hand in front of her, unwebbing her from the day dream she was weaving.

"Oh, I am sorry." She quickly wiped her mouth with a napkin and replied, "I have to prepare for our trip to Emyn Arnen. I am afraid I can't join you."

"That is fine. I guess we will see you before lunch," he pushed away from the table and signalled at his Royal Guards.

"Lord Éomer!" she stayed silent for a while but called out loud when her mind came back to her.

"Yes?"

He glimpsed at her over his shoulder. His eyes sparkled under the seeping sun light.

"Be careful. Please."

She always shy away whenever he was looking at her that way.

"The Royal Knights are with me. I will see you later."

A faint smile touched his lips.

* * *

><p>Her mind had been unsettling since she received the letter from Amrothos yesterday. She worked hard to make sure nobody notice, pretending she was just being her clumsy self. She looked at the taters in the basket in front of her. Her fingers were on mechanic order, stroke after stroke, peeling the skin of the crop but her mind remained an empty yet tangled cavern. Empty that she did not hear all the noise soaring up and down around her. Tangled that she was torn between her options. She had a month. A month left to make her decision.<p>

The scent of earth, sweat and horse wrapped the air around her. Before she could turn around, an armoured arm stretched in front of her and grabbed a dried gooseberry and then a dozen of dead brown-furred animals found their way on her work top.

"What are you working on?"

The usual dark and rich voice rang clear in her ears.

"Taters and gooseberry pies," she answered without turning, her eyes on the leporids, "this is a nice prize. I thought you won't get anything in this season."

Her work top sank on one side as Éomer leaned his frame against it, still chewing the piece of dried fruit. She could feel his eyes flipping between her and the people hustling in and out of the kitchen.

"Luck is on our side," he said, pointing at five antlered mammals which were being dragged into the kitchen, "Look!"

"Deers!"

She dropped her peeling knife and tater and rushed over to examine the trophy of his morning hunt. Deer was very rare in Belfalas; not only that the pirates of Umbar had almost hunted them down to extinction but also the shore was never the preferred habitat of these animals.

She looked at him. Admiration gushed out from the bottom of her heart and filled her eyes. He was full of surprises. She smiled as he leaned over to remove the antlers. "Éothain and Édhere will help you with the preparation. Wynflaéth says she will come around to collect the hides."

"This is going to feed many."

"I have told the people to come around with their plates at lunch time."

"I better get started then."

She rolled her sleeves up and reached for a knife but froze and tensed when his gloved hand came close to her cheeks and stroked a strand of her hair hanging at the side of her face. She looked up and met his emerald eyes, wanted to say something.

"Éomer…." The words reached her throat but her jaw was so tight that she could not let them out.

"I'll get the fire ready."

His finger glid off her chin. He rose onto his feet and headed back to the Great Hall.

She kept her eyes on him until he disappeared from the door. The smell of his leather still lingered and it kept bleeding the unspoken love. She turned her head away and inhaled deeply, trying to return her attention on the animals in front of her.

Later that evening.

She hesitated again before stepping in. She looked up and saw the huge wooden sign. It read: _**Arcil, Jeweller of Edoras.**_

Braving herself with a deep breath, she pushed the door open and immediately she was greeted by a grey-haired man.

"What can I help you with, my Lady?"

She chewed her lip and lifted her left hand. "I need you to remove this."

"Oh! That is a very prestige piece of jewellery you have there, young lady."

"I am sure you have seen it, Master Arcil."

"Of course I have! A very eager young man came just moments before the start of last Yuletide bonfire and asked me to fasten the silver clasps on it."

Guilt showered her from head to toe. For a very brief moment, she had some resignation not to remove the bracelet. She sniffed to find her courage.

"Can you remove it please?"

"It is a very fine bracelet, you are talking about here. Whoever that carved it, is the best in Rohan. Are you certain, my Lady?"

"If you don't remove it now, I will have to chop off my hand to do so!"

His persuasion angered her. It made her feel guilty and stupid. Doubtful about her decision. Of all which she did not need at this moment.

The old jeweller sighed with disappointment in his eyes. "If that is your decision," he gestured at her to sit down next to his workbench and pointed at a huge black iron anvil, "please rest your arm here."

He turned around and searched his toolbox. "You know, that bracelet of yours, we have a name for it."

She looked at him with guarded expression, still cautious that he was trying to persuade her to give up her idea.

"It is called Bracelet of the Dawning Light, meaning hope," the old man continued to explain as he retrieved a hammer and a chisel. "The colour of diamonds," he pointed at the eyes of the horses, "resembles the first light of the day. Whoever that offered this to you, did so with the intention of sharing a future with you. He might not have realised it back then but in his heart there is the thought to do so."

She looked away from it, eyes closed. "Please remove it."

The jeweller looked at her, puzzled by her decision. He lifted his tools and dropped them again. He grabbed her wrist and turned it around, inspecting it. There were incisions, though very light, but still visible on her pale skin.

"Did you try to remove the bracelet yourself, my Lady?"

"It won't break with a knife. Or, a sword."

"You are one stubborn woman, aren't you?" he shook his head and sighed in disbelief. He aimed the tip of the chisel and was about to hammer it down.

"WAIT!"

"Have you changed your mind?"

"No….but can you break it at the clasp please? At least it can be repaired after that. But if the tusk fractures, then it will be beyond repair forever…."

She heard hope in her voice. How ironic.

"I hope I will come to repair it sometime very soon, young lady."

A heavy thud sent shocks of waves through her arm. The old man held up the bracelet and put it in her palm. The horseshoe clasp snapped in half. He looked at her teary face.

"Please remember that that man _loves_ you."

She felt her lips curling upward hearing a third party's reassurance of her thought of him. There was joy dancing in her heart.

"I know. But there are choices in my life that I must make," she wrapped her fingers tightly around the bracelet and bowed. "Thank you, Master Arcil. If it must be repaired, I will definitely come back to you. Good night."

* * *

><p>A few days later.<p>

"Just a little loose here, Wynflaéth."

She unfolded the dress on her bed and pointed at the waist.

"How many?"

"Probably an inch or two."

"Béma! Have you lost some weight, my Lady?"

The older woman turned the garment inside out and inserted a threaded needle, starting the modification work. Lothíriel watched as the tailor's delicate fingers swirled around the fabric. Wynflaéth had offered to seam her a new dress for her cousin's wedding after they found out that moths had seared holes through the silk dress that Lothíriel's mother left for her. The sight of it shocked the two women. The once blue and light fabric turned into foul-smelling pile of dust when they retrieved it from its parcel. Lothíriel was certain that she had sprinkled enough camphor every month and Gamling's wife was quite disbelieved that moths could infest and eat away the dress so quickly.

"No. I have always stayed the same size."

"But you did not eat much today."

"I have had enough vernison in my life for the past five days. Thanks to Éothain!"

"That kid loves you like a sister, you know." Wynflaéth said whilst tying a dead knot at the end of her stitch.

"I know, Wynflaéth, I know," she took the older woman's hand and squeezed it. A smile lit her lips. "Everyone loves me here. It feels like home." She looked down at the ivory dress, trying to hide the sudden weakness in her voice.

But it won't stay that way for long.

A knock came at the door.

"Lady Lothíriel?"

"Yes, Édhere?"

She rubbed her nose to regain her composure.

"Lord Éomer wishes to see you in his study."

"Tell him I will be there soon."

She stood up, stretching herself. She leaned over to the older woman and kissed her on her cheek. "I will see you in the morning, Wynflaéth. Thank you for everything."

She followed her guard to the door of the study. Édhere, consciously, took his leave rather quickly. Even Éothain who was supposed to stand guarding his King had disappeared. This was silly. What were they thinking that Éomer and she were going to do? They had been quite in control lately, not spending much time together alone. She felt Éomer had pushed the effort to assure someone was always around them. Probably to remind her of not to lose herself in his presence.

She drew a deep breath and tapped the door.

"My Lord, you wish to see me?"

He turned around. The candle light flickered in his eyes. His blond mane swept over his shoulders. The dim of the room softened his stern feature.

"Please come in."

Her steps lumbered a little under his scrunity. Her eyes glid across the room. His hand was pressing on a cloth-wrapped parcel. She forced herself to look away, remembering the feel of his hand on her skin. His hands—those long fingers—touched her face, skimmed her neck then wound around her. So tight.

"I believe this is yours," he said, sliding the parcel to the edge of the table for her to pick up.

"This is?"

Sweat drenched her skin. She knew why she felt nervous.

She unwrapped the parcel, revealing the metal accessory beneath. Her belt. She thought it was lost.

"I did not know you kept it."

She flexed it and slung it over her hand. There were scratches on the matte metal surface.

"Hannor brought it into Meduseld _that_ day," he sighed and stood up, turning to the window. The silence spreaded in the study whilst outside the rain drops were beating against the window.

"I washed off the blood," he finally added.

She forced the sting down her throat and ran her fingers along the edge of the buckle, her mind revisiting the event that almost did them apart.

"I've heard Imrahil is not attending Éowyn and Faramir's wedding," he said, looking at her reflection on the window glass.

"My brother, Amrothos, is representing Belfalas. As far as I understand, my father is quite occupied at the moment."

"I hope all is well in Dol Amroth."

"It…is…"

She hoped.

She shifted uncomfortably in her posture. There were many things she wanted to tell him. Where should she start?

"Éomer, I-"

"You should go to bed," he interrupted her, "it is late. We have a long trip tomorrow."

She was a little taken back by his reservation again. It was certainly not the first time he had tried to dismiss her as quick as possible whenever they were alone. When there were others around, he made no attempt at all to hide their connection. It was confusing. What was he thinking? Perhaps, she should go to bed. It was indeed late. He was right. They should not be alone at all. Those unsaid words would have to wait.

She bit her lip and bowed.

"Then I bid you good night, my Lord."

* * *

><p>They were now just two days away from Minas Tirith. Éomer took his whole household with him. He had made it clear that he wanted Éowyn to have the best of a brother could provide. There were chests of fine goods and a few mearas.<p>

The weather was warm during the day but cold at night. The wind channelled and travelled along the White Mountains taking the chill of the tipping snow with it.

Lothíriel rose early. She could not sleep. In fact she could not sleep for most of the nights. The sky was still a blanket of dark sapphire with star dust blinking across it. She unlocked one of the chests and retrieved a long object clothed in layers of hides. Untying the knots, she pulled it out. It spanned three and a half feet with a double-edged black steel blade. The hilt was made of pale ilex wood, a glazed leather enveloped the pommel. A silver swan sat on its guard, spreading its wings. It eyes still glistened with the blue and green ray of aquamarines.

She pushed away the folds of her tent, taking a peek outside. It seemed quiet. Only the shift guards were awake. The damp grass rustled against the edge of her dress under her quick pace.

She held it in front of her with both hands. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her mind worked at its best to unscroll the lessons her brothers had taught her. She had not touched her sword for a very long time. The very memory of swinging it seemed distant and blur.

Her right foot moved a step length further. She needed to get herself back to the correct posture. She tried a few whips but it did not feel right. Time has leeched her skills too far. Her hands were not as agile as they used to be. Another whip. She nearly lost her balance.

"You won't kill a fly like that."

She nearly jumped. Firstly, she was not expecting any company at this early hour. Secondly, all of the people who caught her, it just had to be Éomer. She caught a glimpse of him over her shoulder. He stood not far from her tent, arm-crossed, observing her. His hair stirred lightly in the breeze. The ray of torches lit up his cheek bones and nose.

"Good morning."

A wave of humiliating embarrassment washed over her. It was not intense but sufficient to make her feel like a stupid child being laughed at every failed attempt to impress.

The sound of his boots brushing against the grass grew louder. She pulled her shoulder back to ease the nervous chill.

His large hand grabbed her hands resting on the hilt. He pushed her feet tighter together with his boots. "Find your balance before you start. Control and follow your breathing. You breathe too shallow and too quick. Deep inhale before each move. Exhale slowly as you unleash your strength."

She felt his eyes gaping her every move. He stood behind her. His warmth was heating her from head to toe. His scent drove a twinge through her body. His arms enveloped her, guiding her hands. She froze, her stomach a jumble of tightening knots. His body was solid as an oak against her. Her heart banged out of rhythm, her feet itched to pull away but could not. They had not been this close to each other since the night in Helm's Deep. Every attempt of her to spend some time with him was interrupted by either uninvited guests or his reluctance. Yes, she could feel it.

"Think of the stance. The attack. The slash in front of your eyes," he titled his head slightly to look at her. His hand pressed lightly on her back, straightening her pose. He towered over her in every aspect. Her upper arm was not even as big as his shin. Her hands appeared like those of an infant in his.

She followed every word he said, every move he taught. Every breath she inhaled was becoming increasingly enriched in his smell, mingling with her own. It reminded her of her trip to Edoras more than a year ago. The day that she found herself in trouble just because fishing with Éothain. Also, the same day that she came to terms with her own feeling.

"Shift your weight to your back foot."

"Raise your blade and parry."

"Always thrust with all your strength."

"That is a good move. Try again."

She could hear the laugh and pride in his voice. She looked up and caught a flash of his dimples. He never actually smiled or laughed very much. But he was laughing now. The back of her neck burned with swamping delight. Her sword whiffled in the background of birdsongs. Then they moved onto bow and arrows.

"Keep your arm straight and still."

"Don't tense. Relax your shoulder."

"Pull. Hold. And, release."

"You should not grind away the callus on your fingers. The hardened skin will aid when you swing your sword or pull the string. It won't hurt as much when you don't have your gloves on," he commented as he stepped aside, hands clasped behind his back - an apparent gesture that he was satisfied with her progress.

Her hand stilled at his words. Her lips turned into a bitter twist. "When I was in Dol Amroth, I had been constantly reminded I have hands of a blacksmith. They are not a grace to glance upon."

"A silly man does not know what a true gem is if he judges a woman solely on her outward appearance. People of the Mark do not judge a horse by its saddle," he forced a pause and hesitated before adding, "…and the Riddermark is your home now."

Her heart nearly leapt out of her throat at his blunt words. Was it a confession she just heard? She looked up at him instantly. He just held that deepening look on his face. She turned her head away, blinking the overwhelming emotion away. She brushed her hand across her forehead as if to wipe away the thin layer of glistening sweat. Her pinky finger ran over her eyes, and she tried to pretend it was the smoke from the breakfast campfire that birthed the stinging moist in her pupils.

Just these few moments she had forgotten she had been walking on egg shells. But those happy moments were very short-lived. She was also shocked that her happiness was so easily satisfied. And easy to lose too.

"Maybe we should head for breakfast?" he asked, breaking the silence between them.

Unable to articulate, she only nodded.

As they arrived at the fire camp, the trio, as they were now known as, Éothain, Édhere and Stán were working on their effort to impress everyone at the table. Éothain earned his charm, showing his trick to catch a fried egg in the air after taking a full spin. Édhere who probably learnt all the techniques from his Marshal, threw his dagger up to halve the sausages already falling from some altitude. While, Stán, having the most benign look among the trio, outperformed his friends. The crowd watched in amazement when a mixture of tea and milk was poured back and forth repeatedly between two vessels from a height. The result was a cup of rich tea with a thick frothy top layer at its optimal drinking temperatures.

"What do you prefer today, My King?" A grin broke across the face of the young Marshal. Mischief gleamed in his eyes.

She watched as Éomer gestured at the selection of breakfast in front of them. He looked so much at ease now. He even joked at the trio being poor showmen.

"And you…" Éothain greeted and bowed in front of her, "…My Quee- Ouch!" He rubbed his head and looked accusingly at his King. "You! You! You-"

Shaking his head, Éomer rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath.

A few people close enough including Gamling and Wynflaéth snickered at the sight. Their speculative gaze darted back and forth between Éomer and her.

Lothíriel forced a weak smile, hoping to lessen the embarrassment. She could feel the flame spreading from her ears to her cheeks. But she felt happy.

The joy was contagious and the air was light. It continued so until they reached Emyn Arnen.

* * *

><p>Much to Éomer's dismay, Lothíriel spent the first few days upon their arrival in Emyn Arnen with Arwen and Éowyn. They claimed there was a need to conduct a final checklist for Éowyn's wedding gifts and had asked to go to Minas Tirith. Lothíriel tried to justify it by taking Hannor along so that he could meet his friends. And a day after, they returned. Arwen came back with bolts of luxury fabrics of which she then offered half of them to Lothíriel and Wynflaéth as if they had not enough to carry back to Edoras. Éowyn's wagon was full of different flowers and herbs. She immediately indulged herself in her garden which she was ever so proud of. And finally, much to his surprise, Lothíriel had with several chests of silverware, ranging from forks and knives to plates and pots.<p>

"Are you certain _we_ need all these?" he inquired, raising a straight eyebrow at one of the shining plates in her hands.

She pulled her lips into a thin line. "We don't need these. They are for Amrothos to bring back to Dol Amroth. They are for my father."

"I hope your brother has some really strong brute horses to carry them. They are very very heavy," a clear voice rang behind them. Éothain dropped on the floor and let out a breath of exhaustion. "Can we get a donkey to carry all these next time?"

"Come on, Éothain! They are not that heavy!"

"They are as heavy as your books!" he insisted.

Éomer pulled his bodyguard up. "Enough you two. Time for you to do your job properly. Let's go, Éothain! We have works to do tonight. Now let's get you a beer."

"Have fun!"

By works, Éomer meant all the social meetings he had to endure when the merchants and noble families foist their daughters on him or flirtatious women who threw themselves shamelessly on him. And his bodyguard happened to be the best saviour he ever had in his life. Éothain would always come to his rescue, dragging him away with his best friends, Stán and Édhere. And of course, Men of the Mark could not lie. That was a curse. But Hannor, of all, could deliver whatever they told him with such a convincing tone and sweet innocent face that nobody ever questioned the boy's words.

"I am truly sorry, my King is drunk."

"I apologise for interrupting you but my Lord is required somewhere else."

"He offers his most sincere apology that he cannot be present at this moment."

These were among the lines that Éothain managed to fabricate to free his King from the troublesome social events.

Éomer took a quick glimpse over his shoulder as he led Éothain to the tavern at the foot of Éowyn's ford. From the corner of his, he saw Lothíriel on her knees, her hands over her mouth.

Trying hard not to laugh?

He looked again.

Or, choking back a sob.

* * *

><p>It was the night before the wedding. Éomer squinted across the dark folds of mountain behind where the Dark Lord once dwelt. The Ford of Éowyn was impressive. It stood tall and majestic on a hill next to the Great River. But that never interested him. Tomorrow his sister would be officially the Lady of Ithilien. He would have to walk her into the Hall of the Steward where Faramir would take her hands and claimed her as his wife.<p>

His jaw clenched and his fist tightened at this thought. All he ever wanted was for Éowyn to be happy. But the thought of giving her away was harder than he imagined. He could still remember vividly the day she was born. It was a cold day. It was winter. He had just passed his fourth summer.

_His mother was in the labour room with some midwives. His father was pacing impatiently back and forth in their house. The people of Aldburg were excited and they gathered outside on the porch since the midwives were called._

_Decided that he could not stand the grumpy and impatient tapping of his father, he slipped out of the back door. He went all around the garden and came in front of the window behind which his mother was in. He stood tiptoed and wiped the window clean of frost with his sleeve. His grubby hands gripped on the rail, trying to take a peek. But as soon as he got close enough, his breaths steamed the window immediately and he could not see anything._

_Annoyed_ _by his several failed attempts, he stuck his lips out and returned to the Hall where his father was still waiting. The chill of morning air laid on the latch as he closed the door behind him. Blowing warm air into his hands, he pushed his way around all the standing adults who were guessing among themselves._

_"Is it a boy or a girl?"_

_"It has to be a boy!"_

_"No, I think it is a girl!"_

_His father asked him once if he wanted a sister or brother. His answer sent his father laughing so loud that he thought he was stupid. He only said he wanted a horse._

_A whistle awakened the anxious people. His father rushed to the labour room with bated breaths. Éomer heard a strange new sound he never heard before. A sound that made him wanted to explore. He pushed and squeezed himself through the long limbs, finding a path to join his father. And he saw the little wiggling thing in his mother's arms. His emerald eyes treaded the kicks of those little feet. Pink they were. Soft they were. Wrinkled they were._

_He could feel beneath his chest that his heart was beating with so much excitement._

_"Come here, Éomer!" called his father, his large hands lifting him through the air across the crowded room._

_He saw the smile in his mother's eyes. The tears in his father's. The eyes of those whom he loved._

_His puzzled head tipped to one side and amazement swam in his eyes as he glanced down upon this little pink thing that was making strange sounds. Strange they were but they sang in his ears. Nothing else seemed to matter in those silent happy moments. He needed no big horses or his cousin's saddle._

_His father smiled at him and braced him with a shoulder._

_"Meet your little sister."_

_"What is her name?" He heard himself asking._

_"Éowyn."_

_She was his greatest and most treasured discovery in his life._

"King Éomer?"

Éomer woke up from his sea of nostalgia. Ah, a Westron greeting. It must be….he turned around and found his very soon brother-in-law standing a few feet away. Though happy for the Steward and his sister, the joy did not manage to break the stern visage on his face.

"Prince."

He looked at the dark-haired man. Faramir carried an air of nobility much like his friend Aragorn. But there was something else about this Prince of Ithilien. Wisdom. A virtue that many battle-lust warriors had overlooked.

He scrutinised the Númenór with a critical eye. A sudden wave of uncertainty crept into his mind. Had he made the right decision to give his sister to this man? But that thought quickly varnished as soon as the last Steward of Ithilien opened his mouth.

"My brother, if you allow me to call you this way," Faramir stretched his arms and rested them on the stone pillar.

Éomer returned his gaze to the horizon. Evening stars blinked above their heads.

"I hope you do not think marrying your sister means losing her. I know it is not easy for you tomorrow to pass her hands to me. I can reassure you that she will be happy. I will make my best effort to do so."

Éomer shot a glance at the Steward. Was his face so easily readable now?

A smirk touched his lips. Éomer turned to the Gondorian. A small laugh escaped from his breath. "If I had doubts about you and your intent, we would not be standing here tonight at this moment. I have my ways of judging a man. And you, Prince Faramir of Ithilien, of House of Húrin, are the only man in Middle-Earth that deserves my sister."

A mixture of surprise and consternation flashed across the face of the Steward. He bowed.

"That is a very honourable praise coming from you, King Éomer."

Éomer arched an eyebrow. "Have I built up such a notorious reputation being the most ungenerous person ever walks on the Middle-Earth?"

"Please forgive me, my brother," Faramir let out a light chuckle, "well, you are definitely not the most generous person when it comes to praises."

"I see you are picking up some Rohirrim attributes from Éowyn."

"It is not your sister whom I spoke to."

"Oh?"

"My cousin. Lothíriel."

Éomer immediately felt the need to straighten his back. He shrugged a little. "What about your cousin?"

"I learn that your acquaintance with my cousin is…."

He heard the hesitation in Faramir's voice.

"…..beyond casual. Almost close, I would say."

Éomer knew this subject would be brought up any time soon but he did not expect to discuss it the night before his sister's wedding. _And_ with his soon would be brother-in-law.

"We do have some level of acquaintance and yes, beyond casual level," he acknowledged admittedly.

"Would that have anything that concerns with her future?"

Faramir definitely knew his way of picking his words. Éomer felt his gaze hardened. He was not most comfortable discussing this with anyone as he already had his own agenda but given that the person asking would be his family tomorrow, the resistance to withhold somehow slipped away.

"We will be visiting Imrahil in fall. Most probably end of fall."

"_We?_ Interesting choice of word!"

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Faramir grinning with a hand touching his beard.

"I hope you can keep this between us," he turned to the Ranger of Ithilien, unable to suppress the warning in his voice, "nothing is certain yet."

"Yes, of course." The Steward reassured him with a nod. "I am sure my uncle would be pleased."

"That we will see."

"Is there a problem?"

"There is _no_ problem," he dismissed. Anything that should be discussed with Imrahil would not have to be filtered. Not here. At least not by his brother-in-law.

"My cousin is not an easy woman."

"Strong and wilful you mean," Éomer turned around. He heard the rapid agreement in his reply.

"She has some exceptional qualities."

"I know."

"I mean she has the qualities to be _your_ Queen, King Éomer."

* * *

><p>Éomer let out a sigh of relief when Éothain came with a timely interruption to put an early stop to the conversation from going any further. <em>Queen, queen, queen!<em> He had grown sick of hearing the word these few days. Almost every man that he met in Emyn Arnen had offered his daughters, sisters or cousins to be his Queen. Most were having such a high hope that they wished he would give his consent immediately – which was utterly ridiculous. If in any way, he wanted a woman. A woman that wished to be his wife, not just carrying the fancy title before her name. Queen of the Mark was a burdening title. It came with a responsibility. A heavy responsibility that he saw nobody else would be fit enough for it except…

"Éomer!" Éowyn's voice echoed in the doorway. She hurried her steps to him and grabbed his hand. "Éothain says you wish to talk to me?"

His grip on his satchel tightened. A smile soothed out the frustration previously on his face. "Is there any place we can talk without interruption?"

Éowyn returned his request with a grin and dragged him to a study.

Éomer watched her as she walked around in the study, running her fingers on the shelves of books. The woman whose same blood coursed in his veins. Whom he would give away tomorrow.

"What is it, Éomer?" she settled down them down on a couch and asked.

He touched her cheeks, remembering how they were when he first saw her twenty five years ago. He loosened the laces on his leather pouch and took out two leather boxes. He held the maroon case up, in front of her eyes, and he pulled the cover back.

He saw tears sprang in his sister's eyes. She lifted a hand to hide a whimper.

"These are Mother's."

"Yes, they are," he affirmed, retrieving the jewellery set and clasping the necklace around her neck.

"I thought they were lost…."

He brushed away the liquid from her eyes.

"Uncle kept them. He always said he wanted you to have them…." he paused to push a lump down his throat, "…..and he wished so much that he would be the one passing them to you."

They both knew it was not possible.

"I've missed Uncle and Théodred," she furled her arms around him.

"Me too, Éowyn. Me too." His voice quiet and gentle, his hand stroking her hair.

After a moment, he cupped her face with his callused hands and said softly, "Do not cry. You are getting married tomorrow, Éowyn. Nobody wants to see a bride with puffy red eyes. You will look very ugly, believe me. You always do after you cry."

That earned him a chuckle from his sister.

He hated it when she cried. Whenever she did, he could felt her tears running down his face.

"Now," he continued to unlock the second box, "I've never given you anything in my life. This is the only thing I could offer."

On a velvet sheet, it laid an ivory bracelet, very similar to the one he offered to someone not long ago, except that this one bore the gems of dark emeralds and rubies with clasp of gold. Colours of the Riddermark.

"I did not know you still carved, Éomer! Father always said you are the best in the Riddermark."

Astonishment was all written on her face as Éowyn.

"I only carve for those I love…" his hands on her wrist went still. He blinked a few times. Just there, right there, what had he just said? He must be tired.

He continued fastening the bracelet. "Always remember that Riddermark is always your home. The doors are open for you whenever you feel like coming back."

She lifted a hand to touch his bearded face, smiling. "I know, Éomer."

He cupped her face and brought her forehead against his.

"All I ever wanted is for you to be happy. I'll always be here for you if you ever need me, Éowyn," he took another deep breath before continuing, "You'll always be my sister. And, remember that I will always love you _forever_."

**TBC**

**Éothain meets his match**

**Aragorn trying to be helpful  
><strong>

**The delayed disagreement between Éomer and one particular lady.**

**And her final move to show her feeling before it is too late.**

**Find out why Éomer has been a little relunctant lately  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong><span>Footnotes:<span>**

_**Arcil**_: (Old English, masculine name)An old and experienced jeweller in Edoras. He helped Éomer to assemble the clasps on his carved boar tusks.

**_Ford of Éowyn_**: According to Karen Wynn Fonstad

_**Éowyn's garden**_: Lore-wise, Legolas helps her building a garden with herbs and flowers apparently.

_**Journey from Edoras to Emyn Arnen**_: According to various online source. the estimated time taken is around 15 days.

_**Mundberg**_: Rohirrim name for Minas Tirith

The scene of Éomer and Éowyn were inspired by the song called Greatest Discovery by Elton John. I actually used the song to write the scene. I have also decided to cut down the ceremonial stuff in the next chapter, after reading all the great fics of Éowyn and Faramir's wedding. I must admit I am no way near as good as them in terms of emotional convey and creative norms for wedding.

Another slightly difficult chapter to compile. The conversation between Éomer and Faramir was difficult. I doubt Éomer would question Faramir's devotion to his sister after all he has given his consent for the Steward to marry her. Love can be either too quick or too slow. In this case, it is slow to realise it. You can obviously love someone without knowing it. Éomer knows she means dearly to him but he only finds out that he loves her. Self-struck realisation at its best and will help to explain his relunctance in the next chapter.

**Reviewer acknowledgement:**

**BrightWatcher**: Oh yeah, that would be warning for the next chapter. Sizzling...

**Glory Bee**: I know! You love angst free chapter!

**cCeret**: Amrothos is her brother and poison is in his letter. You make the connection ;)

**Rogue's Queen**: Chapter 24 is the most hilarious of all. Man, I could refer it back when it comes to explain it to my son in a few years! (not so soon I hope!)

**b5delenn**: Thanks for the suggestion! Ha! I was actually thinking about that before. It would be too cruel to leave our Éothain out of the torture! But he is definitely smarter than his King!

**Talia119**: Aww, don't be angry! I have updated now! It is my every intention to make it more steamy next chapter! *laughs evilly"

**anon**: It is a bigger conspiracy. Many similar faces will surface.

**Dr.I_ust**: I believe it is against my inner wish too that they did not go any further! Grrrr! Damn the reputation! But then it will sizzle more in the next chapter ;)

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><p><strong>A big thank you again for everyone who continues to support this story, especially the beloved reviewers whose remarks are the courage and motivation for this work!<strong>


	27. Smothering the Sun

**Warning: Description of intimate activities, not recommended for those below 15.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Writ of Shadows and Phantoms<strong>_

_**Chapter 27: Smothering the Sun**_

* * *

><p><strong>For all those times you stood by me <strong>  
><strong>For all the truth that you made me see <strong>  
><strong>For all the joy you brought to my life <strong>  
><strong>For all the wrong that you made right <strong>  
><strong>I'll be forever thankful <strong>  
><strong>I am everything I am <strong>  
><strong>Because you loved me <strong>

* * *

><p>Éomer could not remember much everything about Éowyn's wedding else except that: There was this long moment of sword salute in the Riddermark's fashion. He gave his sister away. His friend, Aragorn pronounced them man and wife. His brother –in-law then kissed his sister. And now, he was stuck with a very talkative man whose name just slipped past his mind despite being introduced a few moments ago.<p>

He screened across the crowded hall. There were too many people that he did not know or he actually forgot. Too many strangers. Some claimed they met him on Aragorn's Coronation Day more than a year ago. It simply did not register in his mind. Gamling had been wise and escaped the social boredom with his wife. And most of his household was down at the tavern drinking. It just left him and….

"My Lord Éomer?"

Someone pulled his elbow and whispered to him in Rohirric. The ability to speak your own tongue to your own people without others understanding is a truly blessed privilege at this moment.

"Yes, Marshal?" He turned slightly to Éothain.

"Do we actually have to _stay_ here? I mean it was fine for an hour or two but we have been there since, what, morning. Dinner is not until seven in the evening. And that is another ONE LONG hour away!"

The young Rider continued to complain whilst Éomer was doing his best at entertaining whoever that came to greet him. He thought the social meetings before the wedding were bad enough. Now he had rows of parents parading their daughters in front of him. Even Éothain could not escape the uninvited attention. The women swamped around them like bees to honey.

"That would be offensively impolite to Lady Éowyn and Prince Faramir if we were to excuse ourselves right now."

"But, my Lord! I am not a doll! I don't like people come around and wink at me! It is creepy!"

Éomer lit a very very faint smile to the bald man in front of him who never seemed to cease talking.

"Get used to it!" He hissed back.

"I can't! I am a Rider of the Mark! Not some boastful and overly agreeable merchant!"

True. People of the Mark preferred to sing and laugh out at jokes. They liked to crash their tankards against each other's and talked loudly. But here, they felt restrained by the Gondorian norms. No dirty jokes. No dancing on the table. Everything was so formal and polite. Too clean, too polite and too tidy for filthy horsemen.

"Éothain, just keep drinking the wine and smile."

"I already have _eight_ glasses! And I do need to visit the boghouse very soon!"

Now an old woman stood in front of them both, babbling about her granddaughters and their apparent great attributes of being fairer than Elf maidens and smarter than Elrond the Halfelven. Éomer could neither nod nor approve verbally. All he could offer was a cynical smile which was an abundant supply given the attention he received since this morning.

As darkness fell and the reception hall was illuminated by warm flickering braziers, the King of Rohan and his Marshal continued their effort of diplomatic interaction with the hundreds of people. Éomer was conscious that he had not seen Lothíriel at all since last night at the dinner table. He saw her brother, Amrothos, having a hearty conversation with Aragorn and his wife, Arwen. There was no sign of Lothíriel. He glanced around impatiently, his tension mounting with each passing moment.

"Éothain, have you seen Lady Lothíriel?"

"No. Her brother is just over there but I have not seen her."

One glimpse at her when she returned from Minas Tirith with her chests of silverware had been enough to remind him that they really needed to sit down and had a good talk. But with all the unexpected agendas, it proved difficult to find any spare time even for himself. And he felt he owed her an apology for the reservation that he held against her for the last few weeks.

"King Éomer, this is my fifteenth granddaughter and her name is The…she is very good…make a fine…"

He gave another of his cynical smile but did not catch the rest of sentences. In fact, all the conversation appeared like endless buzzing of horseflies around his ears. More guests gathered around them and there was still no sign of Lothíriel.

Had she been surrounded by eligible men as well? His brows met in a frown as he considered that possibility but he dismissed it almost instantly. Édhere would have come to inform him instantly if that was the case.

Forcing himself to remain kingly and courteous, he continued to exchange talk with the loquacious old woman in front of him whilst her grandchildren flirted outrageously at him. Éomer glanced discreetly at his wine glass, swirling it around and taking another sip. Béma's mercy, he had never talked and faked so much smiles in his life. His throat started hurting.

In all probability, there was no worry. Lothíriel was probably somewhere like him – doing her diplomatic task like he was doing now - pretending to be absolutely keen in whoever she was talking to. Five more minutes, and then he was going to look for her. He was about to extract himself from the old woman when she broke off in mid-sentence, a dangerous gleam in her eye as she stared at someone behind him.

"Well—aren't you going to introduce us, King Éomer?"

The expression on the old woman's face became cold and stony. Her granddaughters lifted their hands and whispered themselves.

Instinct told him that the sudden chill in the old woman's tone could only have been caused by the arrival of a rival. Éomer turned slowly, intrigued as to who could have triggered such a response.

The woman in question stood watching him, the enticing curve of her lips the same shade of vivid red as the summerwine in his glass.

The blood and sense departed from his brain and it took him several moments to realise it was Lothíriel.

Lothíriel as he had never seen her before.

Unable to help and restrain himself, his eyes lingered on her crimson mouth and then moved slowly down her body until he reached the edge of her olivine dress. Her posture was elegant and majestic. The light layered fabrics wrapped around her frame like her second skin. The faceted stones on her garment reflected every ray, emphasizing her curve and assets. And her lips. The scarlet of it reminded him of a polished ruby. Rare and lush.

She had pinned the upper crown of her hair up but left the rest loose. The soft slightly waved bands tumbled around the porcelain flesh of her shoulders as carelessly as if she had just come back from her wild ride across the plain of the Mark. Éomer's mouth dried and his head was full of thoughts he tried never to think about her.

His eyes clashed with hers and something raw ignited between them, singeing the air with a dangerous heat that threatened to burn up everything close by.

"Lord Éomer?" The old lady's voice poured strong acid and disdain. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

Doubting that he was capable of speech, Éomer chewed his lip.

"This is Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth…"

Somehow he managed to make the introductions, but he felt his brain was detached from him and his body was working at a different dimension. It had to be the wine.

Questioning looks were thrown on them whilst he tried painfully to bring his brain and body back to the same instance.

"She is our Belfalas diplomat in Rohan."

He heard Éothain stepping in to resume the unfinished introduction. Éomer let out a faint sigh of relief from within.

Fortunately for all of them, Lothíriel did not seem to be affected by the sour tone of the guest.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," She returned the greeting calmly and bowed at the old woman in front of them.

She seemed completely at herself, relaxed as she picked up his interrupted conversation.

And to his upmost surprise, she slipped her hand into his arm and smiled up at him. Fluid and spontaneous was her move which caused their immediate audience to repeat another round of low mutterings among themselves. Even Éothain arched an eyebrow at this sight.

"The Prince and Lady of Ithilien are expecting us at their table, should we join them?"

_We. Should we join them?_

Just last night, his brother-in-law teased him about his choice of the word 'we'. Her use of this word, whether intentionally or not, now declared her attached presence next to him for the evening to come.

He was in the middle of formulating his exit speech when she stood, a little tiptoe, tilting her head and whispered in his ear. Her warm breath blew on his face.

"We should go. Your sister and my cousin are waiting."

Such brief and almost tangible contact should not have an effect at all. But it did. Her pine scent wrapped around him, forming a mist in his brain like a spell. Her pupils were dark as onyx with shade of moonstone circling around them. Mesmerizing.

Her other hand came on top of his arm and enfolded her right hand which was already clasped onto his arm. A gesture that again signalled the close relationship between them.

Gripped by a wave of raw hunger, Éomer was forced to confront an inescapable truth – that if it hadn't been for the presence of guests and the fact that it was an important celebration and ceremony, he would have pinned her somewhere, either against a cold stony wall or on top of a black ash table, without even bothering to remove her dress.

He had been at his tip of withholding his desire whenever they were alone for the past few weeks. He thought he had every nerve under control until now. Shaken by the newly learnt knowledge that he might lose it anytime soon, Éomer took an instinctive measure, not trusting himself not to embarrass them both.

He did not recall how they bid farewell to their guests before, or, that Éothain had been leading them to the table and them arriving at the table. He felt the hundreds on eyes that locked on them. He glanced down. Next to Faramir, there were two empty seats, deliberately left empty. His first guess was that they were meant for him and Lothíriel to sit _together_. Béma must have shown her mercy for there was another empty seat just next to Amrothos who was two chairs away opposite the table. Éomer seized on the opportunity to give himself some much –needed space.

"You should sit with your brother," he said smoothly. In Westron.

She looked up instantly. He saw her grey eyes perplexed with a shadow of disappointment.

**_He pushed her away again._**

Her heart sank.

"Yes, of course. I should sit with Amrothos."

She heard bitterness in her struggled voice.

She dragged her steps around the table. She felt people looking at her. Her face was probably scarlet with mortification at his polite rejection. Someone pulled the chair for her to sit down and she just dropped herself on it like a puppet. Her stomach churning, she stared at a wine glass absently. Disbelief that he did not even appreciate her company. She kept herself away from him for the whole day considering his role as the King of Rohan would require some level of social acquaintance with the invited guests.

He hadn't cared that she would appreciate and want his company just for the evening. He had just pushed her away, surrounded by all the inquiring looks of why they approached the table together and only to be seated separately after. Was it too much to ask for just one good evening? She thought he had stared at every inch of her when she approached him just now. The admiration in his eyes, had she got it wrong?

She tried to control her breathing. Her heart was pulsing quick and loud. Her palms were clammy. The humiliation stung her harder with every peek that she took to look at him and he just turned his head away.

Dishes came and went. Wine emptied and refilled. Everything in her mouth tasted the same. Tasteless.

The table conversation sounded no more than distant and sibilant echoes in her ears. She lifted her fork to feed another portion of whatever it was, in her mouth. But her hand went still when she heard King Elessar asked Éomer a very specific question.

"Éomer, my brother! Have you considered my suggestion of finding you a queen?"

All the mouths yapping at the table and the sound of cutlery clashing stopped. She felt the flood of blazing glares washed over her, especially those of the Rohirrim. She held her head low. She dared not look up. Tightness gripped her chest as she waited for his answer.

She heard him taking a deep breath. A very long one. From the corner of her eyes, she saw him laying down his fork and reaching for a napkin. She was sure he threw her a quick glimpse in between.

"I have."

"And?"

"I thank you for your concern but I have my own agenda."

"Oh? You've never mentioned it."

"I don't see the need to, Aragorn…" the sound of him taking a sip of wine and then he added, "it is a private matter after all."

"I am just offering what a good friend supposes to do!"

Lothíriel closed her eyes, wishing this conversation would end soon.

"My Lord, you should not embarrass King Éomer any further. It is the marriage of Lady Éowyn and Prince Faramir that we are celebrating. Save your interrogation for another time!"

As if her prayers were answered, the Elf Queen drew subject out of the evening table and chatty exchange resumed. Lothíriel breathed again the air of relief. But too soon.

"Lady Lothíriel, how do you find Rohan?"

She froze. The half-sipped wine stopped flowing into her mouth. Her eyes were drifting with the floating flare of the wine. She tilted the cup up and gulped the red liquid down as if it was the source of her courage. Dragging her glance slowly up and across the line of people sitting opposite her, she somehow managed to insert a very brief glimpse at Éomer in between. He seemed ill at ease as much as she did.

"Best plains in the Middle-Earth. And, great horses too. I am sure you will agree with me, King Elessar."

She forced a smile.

"The freezing wind and harsh winter must be quite different from the warm sea breeze of Belfalas."

"It is bearable."

"The Rohirrim meads and hot pots are exceptionally good."

"They are but I miss fish sometimes."

"Have you seen the Glittering Cave?"

"Yes. It is impressive."

"How about mearas? Have you ridden one yet?"

As polite as it came out, the question sounded so improper.

The King of Gondor grinned, lifting his wine glass. She thought it was bemusement that was leaking from his lips.

"I believe that is a privilege that I am yet to discuss with…" she wanted to say 'King Éomer' but it would have come out as ridiculous, inappropriate as the heir of Isildur expected her to fall for his bait, so she decided that she should say, "…the royal stable-master of Edoras."

"Ah, so by the sound of it, you are going to stay in Rohan for longer than expected?"

She could not help but wonder all the casual concern was sounding so personal tonight. She took another sip of the summerwine, aware that it was her sixth glass of the evening. She heard Amrothos hissing to her not to drink too much. But she ignored him. She needed something to stall the time to for her mind to formulate a proper answer.

"Until I release her from her diplomat service in Edoras."

All the heads turned back to Éomer. Most was surprised by his remark. His eyes met hers. Incisive as always, the flames of emerald burnt through her.

Panic, she lifted her wine cup and emptied it quickly.

Before the deadly silence clawed into every corner, the minstrels and harpers began playing their viols.

"Should we all dance?" The Elf Queen suggested swiftly.

Most people rose to dance except Éomer and her. She saw him gesturing at someone. Just moments after, Édhere came around and asked in Rohirric, "My Lady, if you wish to be excused and return to your room, please say so."

"No, I am fine," she waved off the rider but changed her mind very soon. "Do you dance, Édhere?"

The young man appeared a little taken aback by her question.

"I, I do, my Lady."

She ignored the hesitation in his voice.

"Excellent."

She let her bodyguard lead her to the floor. She did not want to back in her room. Alone, speculating thoughts about the rejection she felt from Éomer.

But the moment they joined the swirling pack, she regretted it.

The space was congested with men and women trying to impress each other. And the audience circled around. Many verbal exchanges were so loud that they annoyed her.

"I don't want a nice and neat guy."

Lothíriel heard a young woman standing next to them saying to her friend.

"I want one of those Horse-Lords. Rough accents and bulging muscles," the shameless lady continued to comment, gesturing at Édhere who happened to be in front of them, "body like a maid's fantasy! Must be rough and tough in bed."

"Look at those arms."

"His legs are even better."

"I like his bottom."

How inconspicuous. She heard women praising her brothers all the time but it never went as explicit as what she heard now. She shot them a few warning glances but they just pretended she was air.

Lothíriel looked at the shy, young Rohír. His face as red as a beet, he tried to force a smile but couldn't. Édhere had his normal Royal Guard armour on top of his dark red tunic and his sword slung across his body laying on his left hip. The signature green Rider cloak clasped over his shoulders. With all those scale mail, vambraces, armguards and fabrics covering the young man, she wondered if the women around them could peel off the layers with their eyes.

Édhere shrugged uncomfortably again. She felt sorry for him to be the subject among the preying females.

"Oh, look! The King of Rohan!" one of the overly excited women exclaimed when Éomer rose from the table and stood next to Amrothos at the upper dais.

They exchanged words. She did not like it. Did her brother tell him about Dol Amroth?

"What a disappointment! I thought he would have come down here for a dance or two. I wish to share a dance with him at least!" The woman next to them sighed wistfully, stamping her foot. She was not particularly pleasant for the eyes. Her nose was very big. It reminded her of Hannor's yearling which enjoyed flaring its nostril and spreading its content whenever it was not happy. She believed it was something the young horse picked up from Firefoot.

It took Lothíriel a moment to throw off the disturbing image of Éomer dancing with the big-nosed woman.

"My Lady, are you sure you want to stay?" Her bodyguard suggested an escape.

"Where is the rest of the household? I have not seen them."

"They are outside at the court."

Good idea. She did not wish to linger any longer. Staying any longer would be the test of her patience before she barked at those women for harassing her bodyguard.

"We should join them then."

Édhere took advantage of his tall frame and pushed their way easily through the crowded hall. Flirtatious looks were thrown at him from time to time. She could hear him cursing in Rohirric.

They soon met with their missing companions. The atmosphere outside was very different. Everyone circled around a campfire, singing and joking. A keg sat on the table. All the Rohirrim had tankards in their hands. Some were clapping each other with it and laughing.

"Lady Lothíriel!"

Gamling rose and extended his arm for her to take his seat and settled himself next to his wife.

"Can't bear the social pressure, my Lady?" Wynflaéth smiled at her.

"Can't bear the explicit praises they so generously share," accepting a tankard, Lothíriel directed her pitiful glance at Édhere who now let out a sigh of relief. She felt a little at ease now.

"Ah! As bold as us?"

"Wynflaéth, not bold! Shameless is a better word! I think they wanted to eat him alive. Poor fellow."

"Can't help if women find our men attractive-"

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!"

Everyone instantly turned around to check the source of the deafening shout.

"-or loud…" Wynflaéth added slowly.

Éothain was pissed. He was fuming and he pushed a drunk man away from a blonde young woman. Lothíriel caught a glimpse and saw it was Hereswið, Éowyn's handmaiden.

Hereswið was to return to Edoras after spending almost a year with Éowyn in Gondor. Éothain was assigned with the task to oversee the transition. But it did not start well for either of them. The handmaiden's reunion with her fellow Rohirrim began at a tavern in Emyn Arnen – the one which Éothain paid a few visits to with his riders and somehow one day he made a rude remark in Rohirric about some unpleasant looking women. He called someone a swamp donkey. A little careless while distracted, he crashed into Hereswið who oberheard him and thought he was insulting her.

So she returned his favour by slapping him. In public.

And all the Royal Guards witnessed the priceless moment.

Since then the air between the young Marshal and the handmaiden had been a little strange and unexplained much to the delight of the riders.

"Stop following me, you _dimwit_!" The young woman barked.

"What did you just call me?"

"D-I-M-W-I-T!"

"I saved you from that a drunkie and you call me a DIMWIT?"

"I could've kicked him…."

"You lunatic ungrateful wo…"

The verbal battle continued and many Rohirrim now stood up to peek at the chaotic scene.

Stán leaned a little forward to share the information he gathered. He spoke in a low voice, "We think Éothain likes her."

"Oh!" Lothíriel looked at him, surprised. She raised her tankard and commented, "He has met his doom then."

"Aye!" The Rohír smiled proudly. "And, we can't wait for the wedding!"

"So soon? But they have just met!" She heard shock in her own voice.

"My Lady," Wynflaéth clashed her tankard against hers and winked, "this is the way of the Riders."

* * *

><p>The rest of the two weeks was basically filled with other overfilled agendas of visits from other representatives of Gondor. But meal times were interesting.<p>

Lothíriel sat at the dining table, still, looking down at her plate. She swallowed at the sight. A pike was staring at her with its lidless popped-out eye.

A fish.

_Again._

Every meal consecutively for the last ten days.

Ever since the evening she mentioned she missed fish, much to her delight, the next day she found a fish dish especially prepared for her. The first dish was a perch grilled with herbs which she had much pleasure in enjoying it. Not to mention when Éowyn shared some knowledge of the sudden change of menu.

"My brother asks the kitchen to prepare some fish _especially_ for you," Éowyn whispered to her at her first fish meal.

Warmth spread from within. She could feel his gaze on her and Lothíriel knew her cheeks were burning.

And she finished it with such delight that it followed that she would have fish for the rest of the days she spent in Emyn Arnen. Carps, basses, perches and it went on and on.

But today it was a pike! Of all Middle-Earth fishes why did they prepare her a pike?

She swallowed again at her dish. Pike was notorious of being the most difficult fish to eat. They were full of bones. Very fine bones. And it would have been impossible to separate meat from bones with just fork and knife.

She scratched the handle of her fork with her thumb, not sure where to begin.

"Is everything all right?"

Her cousin noticed her hesitation.

"I am just devising the best method to eat this fish." She forced a smile.

"Is there a problem?" A deep, rich voice asked.

She removed her gaze from her fish and looked up at Éomer. He frowned. Damn.

"No. No problem at all."

She broke the fish across its mid section. As expected all the white branches stuck out from the steaming hot portion in her fork. Her stomach growled at the tempting scent but her throat warned that she should not shovel the spiky flesh in her mouth. Torn between table manner and the risk of killing herself with fish bones, she opted for the obvious safe option.

She laid her fork down and rolled her sleeves up. After rubbing her fingers with a clean napkin, she picked up a hearty portion and removed all the bones. Satisfied with her effort, she fed the piece into her mouth. Delicious!

She continued portion after portion until she noticed the whole table had fallen silent. Had she been too embarrassing?

Unable to think of a suitable word to open her mouth, she sat in frosty silence, wondering how long it had been since the last conversation ended.

"I see you are enjoying your food very much," her brother finally said.

"It is good food."

Shame and guilt ran over her. Did she appear too at ease?

She bit her lip.

"You've got the Rohirrim way of eating, my Lady," someone teased.

It sounded like a statement but she knew it was not.

The blatant comment was insulting, not only to her but also to the Rohirrim present. It made her blood boil.

She pushed herself immediately away from the table, stood and stared at the man, her face flushed with anger. He was one of her brother's guards, Esquire Limfind, a man known for his uncouth mouth and rude remarks, always thought the Middle Men, as he constantly referred the Rohirrim as, were more inferior to High Men of Gondor.

As much as she wanted to yell at the young guard, she must not forget her table manner.

"May I be excused, my Lords and Ladies?"

"Lothíriel, it is nothing. I am sure Limfind did not mean it-" Her brother tried to calm her and also defended his guard.

She turned to her brother, fuming.

"I will not sit at the same table with someone who is ungrateful to the men and women that gave their lives to save Gondor."

"My Lady, you have mistaken my words-"

"No! I have not, Limfind! You have shown no respect at all to any of our Rohirrim companions since the day you arrived. They rode to battle knowing it was their end and _where_ were you? Where were you when old riders cried in the dark? When the injured soldiers begged me to kill them so that they were no longer in pain? Where were you? Cowering in your pathetic corner?"

"Lothíriel, watch your words! Have you forgotten your manner after a year in Rohan, young lady?"

Her brother stood up and positioned himself between her and his guard.

That was it, her final straw.

"Teach your men how to wash their mouths before you question mine, Amrothos!" She fired back. Without giving her brother a chance to reply, she returned her gaze to the table. "I see you all…this evening, my Lords and Ladies."

She was not sure she wanted to be at the same table again tonight.

She took her bow and left, storming out of the dining hall. She heard Amrothos apologising to the people at the tableand her cousin calling her.

But it was Édhere who ran after her.

Sent by his King.

* * *

><p>It was the last day in Emyn Arnen. Tomorrow they would return to Edoras and her brother would depart before dawn, taking the first ship from a small harbour next Anduin River back to Dol Amroth.<p>

Damn, it was really late. She must hurry.

"Hannor?" she knocked, shifting a leather-wrapped parcel under her arm.

A few moments later, the door opened and a sleepy boy rubbed his eyes as he answered, "What is it, Lady Lothíriel?"

His innocent face stung her heart. There were so many good moments that they shared. It seemed so strange and surreal that it won't stay that way.

She leaned down, trying to control her voice. "Hannor, sorry to wake you up! Can you do me a favour please?"

The boy yawned and nodded.

She handed him the parcel. "Can you pass this to Éomer King tomorrow, Hannor?"

Accepting the package, Hannor looked puzzled. He looked up, his eyes still half-opened. "Why don't you give it to him tomorrow?"

Pressure built up around her nostril and eye sockets, she forced herself to sound normal. "I want you to pass it to him. Can you do that for me please?"

"Yes, my Lady." Hannor gave another yawn, his hand covering his mouth and moist glistened around his eyes.

Not able to hold back her impulse, she pulled the boy into her arms, patting the small head. The sour taste in her mouth grew more intense. "Hannor, no matter what happens, remember that I love you."

After convincing Hannor to get back to bed, she returned to her allocated quarter.

The embers of the firepit flew like gold dust in the air. She watched silently when a moth darted to the flame, struggled when the web of fire caught its wings. Within moments, it turned into ashes.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection had changed. She did not see the untamed woman looking back at her now. The strong, scrolled frame still encased her, but something different was cast in her eyes now. The recklessness she had seen in herself – a virtue that had come she had come to dislike was not as obvious as it used to be. She looked different. Not tarnished by her assorted scenes in her life, rather matured. She knew what she wanted. And she would set matters right. Tonight.

Tonight she found herself in his chamber. His questioning eyes set deeply with serious brows when he saw her at the door.

He sat in a cushioned chair and dressed in an Elven night shirt, a typical Gondorian practice of hospitality. His appearance smoldered with the button-downed garment. An aura of seer, heroic and regal seemed to float around him.

A letter on the table caught her eyes.

"Writing a letter?"

"Yes, to Imrahil. I want to hand it to Amrothos tonight before he leaves tomorrow."

"What are you telling my father?"

He moved to a corner of the room, eyes closed. "Your ordeal and my apology."

"I beg your pardon? Are you telling him about…"

"Yes! I am as you have been quite reluctant to keep him informed."

"So you are telling him a story based on your speculative observation and investigation?"

He returned his gaze onto her. His voice was stern and serious. "I am telling him the truth that you never told me."

Clasping the collar of her night mantle closer, she turned her head away and grimaced, "it is nothing worth repeating. You've heard enough from them."

She did not wish to revisit the buried memory of her dark days of the capture. And it was not what she wanted to talk about tonight.

"I wanted to you to tell me," he demanded.

"There is nothing that you have not heard off! Everyone has told you the same story!" Enraged, she barked at him, taking a step backward. "What changes would it bring? Would you have acted differently if it were you?"

"I don't know what I might have done but certainly not walking the line of death."

"They were going to kill Ælfgar! Are you implying that I should not have exchanged myself for his life?"

She felt her breaths were running swallow and quick.

"I did not say that." He lifted his shoulders in an exasperated shrug.

"There were more than twenty men against two of us- a woman and a child! That was the only way to get us out of there! To have at least one person saved!"

"I am not judging your decision, for Béma's sake! I just wanted to hear your side of the story," he gestured for her to calm down.

"Is it going to change anything?"

"No."

"Then why on the Middle-Earth do you want to hear about it again if it is not going to change anything!"

She looked at him with a gesture of disbelief, pacing around the little space between him and the door.

"Lothíriel, by all means, I _am_ King of the Riddermark. It is my right to demand an account from you!"

"I am not your prisoner! You do not interrogate me! I will speak when I wish!"

"May I remind you that you _are_ Imrahil's daughter! Your father trusts your safety in _my_ hands!" Infuriated, he rose to his full height and nearly roared at her.

"Is that what I am to you? Imrahil's daughter? Someone you _have to_ take care of?"

This time it was her voice that was unsteady and her hand tightened on her gown, holding it like a lifeline.

"You are being unreasonable!" He paced to another corner of the room and laced his arms on his waist.

"I _have_ always been unreasonable in your eyes, have I not?" She stared at him. Her face was flushed red.

He let out a heavy sigh and turned away from her.

"I've always been a liability, have I not? That is why you have been pushing me away lately."

"Look, Lothíriel, you don't understand…" He felt tongue-tied.

She was shaking with anger and she watched his face change as it finally dawned on him that he wasn't handling this well.

"Do I embarrass you that much?" She asked, not without a slight bitter twitching of her lips.

"No. You don't get it."

"Yes, I do, Éomer King. For all the reluctance you offer recently, I cannot help but wonder if I meant more than just Imrahil's daughter to you!"

Her body was shaking and Lothíriel fought for control, not wanting him to witness just how bad she felt.

"You know the fact that you are Imrahil's daughter does not change my opinion of you. Why are you being so hard?"

"Am I? Do you think so? Who is being hard on who? Tell me!"

Éomer stilled, a stunned expression on his face as if he had not expected her to retaliate so intensely.

"The fact that you are standing at the far end of this room speaks for itself. Let's see…" She tilted her head to one side, her tone sarcastic. "Possibly something to do with your response whenever I get too close to you, or maybe the fact that you politely rejected me at the dinner table during the wedding feast, putting as much distance as possible between us. I'm not stupid, Éomer. If I am not good enough for you, just tell me and I will leave."

No. This was not what she came here for. How had it escalated to a quarrel? She wanted answer. She wanted to know why.

"What has become of us, Lord Éomer?"

"You don't know anything-"

"Stop using that as an excuse!" She hastened to interrupt him. She had grown tired of his accusation that she did not know or understand anything. If he had chosen to tell her, she would have understood.

"Lothíriel, stop pushing. You are playing a very dangerous game," he warned in a driven tone, his voice unsteady.

"Am I?" She stepped closer, staring right into his emerald eyes, her fingers curled into a fist by her side. She wanted answers. She wanted them now.

"Lothíriel, leave! You are not yourself tonight!" He pointed at the door.

"No! I want answers!" Aggravated to the point of explosion, her eyes narrowed to a pair of silver slits, her mind constantly reminded her why she was here tonight – demand for answers and something else. Her fists unwrapped, she tiptoed and lifted her hands, cupping his face.

"Éomer…"She brushed her lips on his, testing his scent before devouring it.

She kissed him.

She felt his body stiffened by her sudden change of behaviour. But it did not take long before he reacted. His hand held the back of her head, his sensual mouth took in every inch of her lips, deepening their kiss. A hand coiled around her waist and brought her against his solid body.

Her stomach curled in delicious awareness and every nerve of her quivered with anticipation. Now she knew why she brought herself here. She wanted him. A frightening truth that her mind chose not to elaborate and let her desire led her to explore her new self.

She slid a hand beneath his garment. His muscles were pumped up and hard, his jaw shadowed by stubble, his half-button shirt showing a hint of his appealing chest and light body hair. He was irrevocably, unapologetically masculine in every inch and she was completely impaled by him, so shockingly aroused that she felt her body would leap into flame. The shocking thrill of desire arced through her body. When he took her mouth in another hot, demanding kiss, she let out a soft moan and the last of the strength escaped from her knees.

Her heart swooped, tumbling her sense over each other. She was caught in a vortex of excitement so intense that it was almost unbearable. His hands sank into her hair, his calloused fingers released her dark from the obstructing knot and her locks fell like curtains of oblivion. His hands slid down to her back and his kiss grew greedier, asking more with every moment passing by.

She kissed him back, her response to the explosive tension becoming as fierce as his. Her fingers clutched the front of his half-button shirt, her knuckles grazing the exposed hard muscle of his chest, her thighs pressed hard against his. Her night mantle fell off her onto the marble floor.

When he lifted his head, she opened her eyes in shock and tried to gather her focus, only to feel the warmth of his breath on her throat.

"What have you done…" He growled the words breathlessly against her skin, his large hands sliding confidently down her back to the base of her spine. His mouth found hers again.

Eyes closed, she was gasping for air. With a cry, she unbuttoned his shirt and his hands on the front of her night gown, popping off each button and baring the velvety of her skin.

His kiss was urgent and demanding and she answered that demand with her own. She furled her arms around his neck and rose on the very tip of her toes, trying to get closer. Dimly aware that the top of her dress now sat as a heap around her waist, her upper body was completely against his bare chest. Both of them were damp with sweat.

Without taking his mouth from hers, she felt his strong arms went behind her knees and her feet lifted from the floor. The buoyant motion told her he was carrying her across to his bed. Still kissing her, he deposited her on the centre of the silk cover and came down over her, the weight of his body made her pulse race.

The moon rose high in the starry sky. The sounds of night birds chirping and insects buzzing did not reach their ears. Here, in the intimacy of his room, nothing but breathing and heartbeats rang in the silence. All rationale was thrown out of the window of her mind, there was no time to think, falter or reason. There was no need.

She gasped when his hand covered the swell of her breast; the hoarse skin of his palm brushed over the soft peak and turned her gasp into a throaty moan. "Éo…mer…"

And when he dragged his lips from hers and took her nipple into his mouth, it sent a burning sword plunging from her neck to her pelvis and she dug her nails into the buckled muscle of his shoulders and arched her body against his. His tongue unleashed a wave of unknown sensation rippling through her body, this empty tingling ache that was building up rapidly in her lower abdomen. There was a void that drove her mad, wanting to be closer to him. An emptiness that only he could fill.

The unerring accuracy of his tongue and each stroke that came with it was maddening. The warmth between her thighs screamed, wanting to explode. This was too much and too intense. She heard herself sobbing, calling out his name in desperation.

"Lothíriel…"

His husky voice blurred the sensual fog in her mind even more. He returned his lips on hers, kissing as explicitly and intimately as before.

Her hands slid down to his lined abdomen, reaching for the draw-strings of his trousers. Her fingers clawed only to reach nothing and a flow of cold air washed over her exposed skin.

She opened her eyes and saw him leaving the bed, putting back on his shirt. The fabric adhered onto his skin. He ran his hand in his mane which was now damp and strewn. His muscle flexed beneath the sweat-soaked fabric. The raw power radiating from him even at a distance sent a signal of his overpowered male dominance.

He poured himself a glass of water and emptied it then another refill. His breathing was still ragging as he spoke, "I can't."

She pulled the sheet closer and covered herself over it. Shame that was all she felt at the moment. Had he rejected her again?

"Do you see it now? It turns me into a beast! Do you have any idea how much self-control it has taken not to touch you?"

Shocked by his blunt words, she looked up and met his gaze. The flame of lust still flickered in his eyes. But there was something else. _Guilt._

"I will kill myself for dishonouring you. Please give me time, Lothíriel. End of fall and I will talk to Imrahil."

Remorse swept her heart as she realised she had mistaken him and all his effort of distancing himself from her. How could she not see it before? She had let her own selfish prejudgement misled her. She hid her face in her hands to hide the joyful sobs.

Warmth spread from her shoulder as she lifted her head and saw him sitting in front of her. His hands were still trembling as he fastened the buttons of her gown and wrapped her mantle over her shoulders. "I'm sorry-"

"No, I am sorry." She pressed her finger on his lips. "I should have known. That is silly of me."

He brushed his knuckles on her cheeks. She sniffled at his gentle touch.

"I should return to my room," she stood up and pulled her dark mantle off the bed.

"I will see you in the morning." He lent her a hand to steady her as he rose.

She took a final glance at him and smiled, taking in all the details so that they carved a permanent imprint in her mind. In a soft voice, she spoke, "Good night."She ran her fingers on his bearded jaw and kissed him on the cheek. Swallowing back a sour sting, she whispered in his ears. "_Gi melin_."

She turned and went back to her room.

* * *

><p>The land, still dark, had not awakened from the night before. Pre-dawn breeze rocked the river waters gently.<p>

Amrothos laced his hand at his waist as he commanded his guards to lift the chests of silverware onto his ship. After a good few minutes, everything was done and loaded on the bay. He signalled at a dock worker to remove the hawser and his men to release the sails. The flax cloth took shape as it was unleashed dropping it along the height of the mast.

The ship glid along Anduin River. Dazzling reflection of the soon disappeared moonlight danced on the water surface.

He blew a breath of relief and accepted a cup of tea from his guard.

He took a sip, resting his extended arm on a pole, on the main dock. The fresh air blew on his fair face.

"Good morning, Amrothos."

Shocked by the voice which he recognised, he turned around slowly. His eyes went wide and the teacup slipped from his fingers.

"Lothíriel."

**TBC**

**Éomer's reaction to Lothíriel's unannounced departure.**

**A deeper insight into Éothain's new life: Upside-down!**

**And Lothíriel has difficulty adjusting her life back in Dol Amroth.**

* * *

><p><em><strong><span>Footnotes:<span>**_

_**Handmaiden**_: (noun) Personal maid/servant

_**Swamp donkey**_: A very ugly woman

_**Hereswið**_: (Old English feminine name) Éowyn's handmaiden, a speculative love interest of Éothain.

_**Dimwit**_: (noun) Idiot, moron or a crazy person, usually expressed as an insult.

_**Pike**_: (noun) A fresh water fish with many bones.

_**Limfind**_: (Sindarin masculine name) Amrothos' guard.

_**Ælfgar**_: (Sindarin masculine name) a boy of Snowbourn rescued from Dunlending outlaws.

_**Gi melin**_: (Sindarin) I love you

**_Hawser_**: (noun) A knotted rope tied to harbour to secure ship/boat

**_Mast_**: (noun) A tall vertical spar on which sails are attached to.

**_Reviewer acknowledgement:_**

**Glory Bee**: Éothain is great! We will see even more of him in the next chapter! :D

**Dr Lust**: I always believe nothing is thicker than blood!

**b5delenn**: Thank you so much for the correction! The poison and bracelet will be explained in the next chapter. Stay tuned!

**BrightWatcher**: Éowyn and Faramir are perhaps the only couple that I like in the trilogy of the volume. Tolkien put a lot of effort into building their relationship. Unlike, Éomer's wife who is merely a footnote...

**For for all those who wonder, no, they have not *ahem*. But it was close.**

* * *

><p><strong>Again, thank you for all your support! Please continue to drop me any kind of reviews! *bows*<strong>


	28. Serendipity Uncovered

**_Writ of Shadows and Phantoms_**

**_Chapter 28: Serendipity Uncovered_**

* * *

><p>The breeze brushed against her skin as she stood at the dock. The hills of Emyn Arnen disappeared from her sight.<p>

She scratched her fingers on her left wrist. It felt empty and bare. She just remembered the bracelet was no longer on her wrist. Strange how determined she was to remove it and only to feel awkward as if part of her was missing. She had left everything behind. Things that reminded her of Éomer. Things that might haunt her later and potentially make her regret her decision.

Her brother made his best effort to convince her to return to Rohan but soon gave up. He knew he could not win an argument with his sister.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" he shouted, pacing angrily toward her.

"Taking the same boat as you. Back to Dol Amroth," she answered casually with a shrug, walking pass him.

"But Lothíriel, you are not supposed to go back home with me! You were to stay in Rohan, for Valar's sake!"

"Tell me why should I stay, Amrothos?" She looked into the distance. The sun was now rising, spraying the dark sky with ray of red and yellow.

"Father said you should-"

"Should I? When my family is in jeopardy? When someone tries to poison my brother?" She turned to face him and interrupted hastily.

"Lothíriel, you don't understand. Rohan is safer than Dol Amroth!"

"That is why I must return! I cannot stay in Rohan knowing there is someone out there who tries to kill Elphir or Father or you!"

Seeing his sister's persistence, Amrothos threw his arms in the air and shook his head. "I should not have told you."

Lothíriel saw the regret knitted between his brows.

"You did the right thing. Amrothos. I am glad you did." She came in front of him. Her tone now softened. She brushed off a loose fringe in front of his face. "I am tired of being protected, being a burden, being a child. I am of the House of Adrahil too! And, I will not forgive myself if anything should happen to my family."

"Father will not be pleased."

"I would rather seeing him being angry than me hiding in Rohan and weeping in vain. Please, my brother, you must understand, the same blood that courses in your veins runs in mine too. I love you and I will do anything to keep our family safe."

* * *

><p>Something silky was pressed against his face.<p>

But that all did not matter very soon when the inside of his head went banging. Wave after wave. Grumbling, he unfurled the silk cover and sat at the edge of the bed.

"My Lord Éomer?" A male voice came behind the door.

"Yes, Éothain?"

He pinched the bride of his nose to wake himself a bit more.

"Ready for your morning wash, Sire?"

"Yes, please."

He rubbed his temple, trying to ease the pain. His head hurt and he had not felt so bad for a while. Sighing, his eyes caught a glimpse of a letter sitting on a table.

"Damn," he cursed.

The letter to Imrahil remained unfinished. The incident last night caught him off-guard. His brows knitted into a frown as he recalled the near-miss. It was out of control. Completely out of his elements. One more step then he would have come as close as Imrahil chopping his head off. He was a king and she, by right, was a princess. A daughter of his friend. Someone whom had been trusted into his care. He should not have allowed it to happen. Twice including last night in four months! That was stupid. If his father was still here, he would have beaten the crap out of him.

He sighed.

And his head was banging like a brick on a wall.

Fortunately, the morning wash did somehow ease the headache and by the time he changed, it was almost gone. He looked out of his window. The sun was above the horizon. It must be at least eight o'clock. He cursed beneath his breath again. He always woke up before seven o'clock. Everyone must be in the dining hall waiting for the King of Rohan. A king who was late for breakfast.

Éomer shook his head as he made his way to the breakfast table with Éothain.

"Is Lady Lothíriel awake?" he asked quietly in Rohirric.

"Probably still sleeping. I have not seen her."

They came across a few Rangers of Ithilien and exchanged polite nods.

"Let me know when she is awake."

"Ohhhhhh." Came the long and suspicious tone. "Did _something _happen last night?"

Éomer pushed away his Marshal who was leaning close to him. He stopped and tilted his head aside, asking, "Éothain, is there any part in your brain that stops wondering what people are doing at night?"

His bodyguard broke a very benign smile and gestured innocently. "I'm only worried about your welfare and Riddermark's future, my Lord Éomer!"

"I bet you are."

There, they reached the breakfast table and were surprised to find only Faramir and Éowyn were there.

"Good morning, Brother."

"Good morning, Éomer."

It was Éowyn who greeted him first. And Faramir had been addressing him by his name ever since the wedding day.

"Good morning," he replied, pulling a chair to sit himself whilst throwing a quick glance discreetly at an empty seat next to Éowyn. The seat that Lothíriel always settled herself on for the last few weeks.

"How did you sleep?" Éowyn asked.

"I slept fine. A little headache but I am sure it will be gone soon before soon." Éomer gestured a nod of appreciation at a servant pouring his tea.

"I have not seen Gamling this morning."

"He is down at the camp. The men are dismantling the tents. He wants to make sure they don't leave a mess in your garden."

The morning conversation revolved around the preparation for the Rohirrim's return journey to Edoras.

"Éomer, have you had everything you need? Faramir is able to provide additional provision if you should require."

"We will be fine, Éowyn. We will probably stop by Mundburg to replenish our stock before we take the Great West Road."

"So will it take fifteen days again to go back to Edoras?"

"No. We will move at a quicker pace since our wagons are now lighter. Probably twelve days." He threw another assumingly discreet glimpse across the table again. It was now almost nine o'clock and Lothíriel was still not here. They needed to depart before noon.

He signalled at his Marshal and said only loud enough for Éothain to hear. "Send Édhere down to fetch Lady Lothíriel."

The young Rider grinned and hopped off to proceed with his task.

Éowyn exchanged a look with her husband and enquired carefully, "Is everything fine, Éomer?"

"Everything is in order," he dismissed.

He thought everything was in order until Éothain and Édhere came running into the dining hall and Édhere whispered, "My Lord! I can't find Lady Lothíriel."

Frowning, Éomer turned immediately to look up at the Rider. "What do you mean you cannot find her?"

Édhere swallowed. "She is not in her chamber, Lord Éomer."

"Did you try to knock, Édhere?"

"I've checked her chamber. It is empty. "

The sibilant conversation between the King of Rohan and his rider now grew a little louder, just enough to draw some attention from the newly-wedded couple.

"She has to be somewhere, Édhere. Have you checked the balcony?"

"Lord Éomer, I've just gone to the balcony, she is not there either. And Silverwing is not at the stable," Éothain inserted.

"How about her maid?"

"Moriel is nowhere to be seen."

"Lady Lothíriel has to be somewhere. Maybe riding with Silverwing. Go and find her-"

"Éomer, did you not know?"

The three Rohirrim stopped their conversation and turned to face the Lady of Ithilien. Éomer saw the strange look on his sister's face. Her unusually cautious expression whenever she was about to disclose something that he did not know.

"Know what? What is it, Éowyn?"

She interchanged again another look with her husband. There was a pregnant pause. It was Faramir who finally answered, "My cousin took the ship to Belfalas before dawn. She is on the journey back to Dol Amroth with her brother."

Taken aback and appalled by the unexpected answer, Éomer stood up immediately. His abrupt movement caused the tea to spill over the polished black ash table, dripping off the lavished edge.

"I beg your pardon?"

It could not be.

He asked again to verify what he had just heard.

"She told us last night that she would be returning to Dol Amroth with Amrothos. And I thought you knew…"

Éomer was completely confused. What was all this about? Lothíriel left after everything last night? After he made the promise to her? After they had reached a common acknowledgement about their future? Which part of his words that she did not understand?

"You…" Éowyn stood up slowly as well, her hand almost covering her mouth, "…you did not know."

He was so shocked into silence that for a moment Éomer couldn't respond. He could feel rage building inside, burning his composure. His mind swirled like a winter storm.

He felt hurt.

And betrayed.

She left him. Without telling him. Without even a farewell. What game was she playing?

His breaths became quick and swallow. He could not help but grind his teeth.

"Of course, I did not know! She did not say anything about going back to Dol Amroth!"

His loud voice almost echoed in the hall.

"Are you certain she did not say anything at all?" Faramir rose, trying to calm the situation.

"No. We, we exchanged a few words last night and…" he paused but continued bitterly, frustrated and anguish, "…I told her to wait until fall. I told her we would go to Dol Amroth and talk to her father. But it seems she has her own agenda."

"Éomer, I am sure there is a reason behind-"

"What reason?" Angry, he interrupted his brother-in-law harshly, "What reason that she can't tell me and decided to leave without my knowledge?"

That sent Faramir speechless.

Eyes closed, Éomer drew a long breath to calm his whirling emotion. He gestured at the two stunned Rohirrim behind him. "Tell our people that we are leaving at ten o'clock."

Now he wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. He wanted to be back in Edoras and tend the need of his people.

"Éomer! You could always catch the next ship to Belfalas…"

The suggestion from Éowyn only made matter worse.

"No, I am going back to the Riddermark," he pushed his chair back and stepped away from the dining table.

"You should really go to Dol Amroth as soon as possible, my brother, things like this can't wait. You ought to find out what has happened!"

Éowyn tried another attempt at persuading her brother to change his mind.

"It is her who can't wait! I told her fall would be the time! She chose NOT to wait, Éowyn! And I can't leave my country now not knowing if we have enough crops to survive for the coming winter! I can't spend my days worrying about some spoilt princess!"

There was hard glitter in Éomer's eyes. Éowyn took a step back and looked at her brother silently. The sudden flare in his emerald pupils was a reminder of his long-absent volatile temperament.

He was correct. Months from June until September were the annual harvesting period. He would need to learn if there was sufficient to feed every mouth, either of man or beast, in the Riddermark. Last year had been disastrous and he wanted to ensure he did not want to have to beg Gondor again for more supplement this year.

So the Rohirrim party left Emyn Arnen hastily.

The return journey to Edoras took less time as anticipated. They arrived on the ninth day. Although Éomer tried his best effort not to let his fouled mood overrule him, his Riders could feel it. The deathly silence that crept into every corner whenever they were at a campfire at night was making the air eerie. The frowns that seemed to sit tighter and tighter between his brows only discouraged some of them from talking to their King. His men learnt to cut their breaks short and travelled as much as possible in a day to reduce the possibility of them catching the silent rage from Éomer.

But being Rohirrim, they still managed to find some ways to entertain each other despite the solemn from their King.

Hereswið shot Éothain another death glare as he threw a carrot at her. He did so just to annoy her. She had been busy preparing the campfire and dinner but the young rider could not leave her alone. He just kept pestering her.

All the times!

Frustrated, she pulled up the edge of her dress and retrieved an object. As the next apple came at her, she slung the item to clash face to face with it. The shape edge cut the flying apple into halves and continued its travel until it struck on a tree. Exactly half an inch away from Éothain's throat.

"Hey! That is called attempted murder, you know!" He pulled the dagger of the tree and pointed at her with it.

"I thought you needed a lesson or two, you thick brain!" She swept her path with a frying pan and her target immediately jumped aside.

"I am not thick!"

"Yes! You are more than thick! You are worse than a donkey! At least that beast would have learnt not to step on a trap twice but you! You never! You were not slapped enough as a child!"

"Why does everyone say that? And I am not a child!" He defended.

"Oh yes, you are! You are a ten year old trapped inside a twenty-five years old body, for Béma's sake!"

She threw another fork at him and he ducked.

"I am a fine piece of male specimen! A warrior hardened by battle! Sharpened by war!" he jumped on a table and stood tall and declared loudly with swelling pride. "Oh yes, I am! I am so!"

Somehow there was a childish look on his face that made Hereswið burst into a series of chuckles which then turned quickly into loud laughter.

"Hey! Show some respect to your Marshal, you ungrateful woman!"

He crossed him arms in front of his chest. His boyish expression was now replaced by a typical face with sticking lips of an unsatisfied boy.

"You have no shame, Marshal!" she said, still laughing with a gesture to wipe off a fake tear from a corner of her eyes.

"I have pride - that is for sure!"

"No, you don't!"

"I do."

"Do not."

"Oh, love is so in the air!"

Their babbling exchange was interrupted by a sudden remark. Both of them turned around quickly and shouted at the same time.

"-I am not in love with him!"

"-I am not in love with her!"

Wynflaéth smirked and winked at her husband who had taken over the cooking task after the young Rohirrim had forgotten all about it.

And that night, around the campfire, Éothain tried his King's riddle technique. He was confident that he could win.

But greater the expectation, greater the disappointment.

He did not win. Not even once.

Hereswið beat him from the very start until the end. Her riddles were so difficult that he got them all wrong. Horribly wrong. So wrong that it sent his guards laughing so hard that it hurt their stomach.

And as a result, he had to do the cooking for the rest of the trip.

And the washing as well.

And setting the tent.

And collecting the fire logs.

And carrying all her luggage.

And never to pester her again – the only rule which he would never obey.

* * *

><p>The days in Edoras were strange. The Riders dared not mention the name of the lady. Their King had not been in a particular bad temper but he did show signs of being fastidious over little details.<p>

The crowd settled on the table eyed their King carefully as a servant placed a dish in front of him.

His brows furrowed as Éomer looked down at the plate. A piece of steak with some dodgy glue- or gum-like gravy. He did not remember that his kitchen had ever prepared a dish as such. He cut a piece out and fed it into his mouth but instantly spat it out after a chew. He threw his cutlery off in frustration.

"My Lord, is the food not to your taste?" Gamling probed a cautious question. He had been concerned with his King's behaviour lately.

"I was going to ask you, Gamling – what is with the kitchen lately? The food seems to be a little…"pointing at the steak with a disgusted look, he forced a pause to think of an appropriate word before continuing, "…_different_ than usual."

"The food preparation has not changed, my Lord."

His advisor tried to defend the kitchen of Meduseld.

"There is definitely something not right with the food. It does not taste the same."

Of course it tasted different. Because the person who usually prepared his food was not there anymore. This thought crossed the mind of everyone sitting at Éomer's table.

Gamling broke a weak smile across his face. "Perhaps I could get the kitchen to prepare something else for you?"

"No, that is fine, Gamling. I am not hungry. I don't want Wynflaéth to worry too much. She has spent too much time in the kitchen already."

His chief advisor leaned closer and said softly, "Wynflaéth does not work in the kitchen anymore. She has not been well lately, my Lord."

"Has she? Does she need to see a healer?"

"She just needs some rest."

"Are you certain, Gamling?"

"Yes, Lord Éomer. I told you that yesterday," his advisor replied with iron certainty.

"Did you? What did you tell me yesterday?"

The old Rider pulled back a little and replied with a faint upward curl of his lips, "Wynflaéth is pregnant."

Éomer found himself surprised at Gamling's words. Gamling was going to be a father and have a child. And Éomer could not remember Gamling telling him that at all. What had he been doing? How could he not remember one of the greatest news in Edoras?

Reality struck Éomer into an absent reverie as he tried to recall the day before.

He took a sip of his wine and asked slowly with caution, "Gamling?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Did I congratulate you yesterday?"

"Yes, you did." With a smile, the older man pressed a hand on Éomer's shoulder and squeezed it gently to reassure him. "You did."

"I'm sorry, Gamling."

Éomer threw his head with a sigh of relief and disbelief. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to take care of his people. If he could not even remember the fact that Wynflaéth was pregnant, what else had he missed?

He pushed away from the table and rose onto his feet. "Send some soup to my study. I'll spend my evening there."

He paced around his study. He did finish his soup not because he was hungry but because he had to. He looked out from a window. White blinking gems decorated the dark sky. The night buzz of insects made him felt less lonely. He was back in Edoras. He should be happy and performing his duty as a king of his people. Yet this thought brought no assurance of comfort or released him from his tangled mind. He spent his night going through every inch of his study, would touch what she had touched, and look long and fixedly at things associated with her. Few tomes of his grandmother which she treasured so much. Old carvings of horses on the furniture which she could not resist to touch.

He shook his head, trying to convince himself he was not miserable for the fact that she was not here. But he was.

It had been a week and it felt long, like a year. Every inch of soil in Edoras smelled different. Every corner stood the shadow of their memory, especially the classroom of the orphanage. He dared not walk in for the past week. But he ought to do so tomorrow. He needed to speak to Hannor who had been almost devastated when he told him that he was not sure if Lothíriel was coming back to Edoras.

His eyes glid across the dim room and lingered on a clothed parcel which Hannor passed to him on their journey back to Edoras. He walked across to unfold it again, running his finger on the items – a carved tusk bracelet with broken clasps and a scarlet hooded wool cloak. The two items he ever offered her. And now she had returned them, leaving all the memory behind her.

His mouth turned into a bitter twist and his eyes hardened.

How could she? Was it so dire in Dol Amroth that she must leave without telling him? Or, just they were never meant to be.

He did not know the answer. But what he did know was that he was furious at her decision, at her recklessness. She had not changed at all from the first day he met her. No, she had changed. So did he.

Any doubts about this thought soon varnished into thin air when Hereswið came to collect the empty dish.

"Hereswið?"

"Yes, my Lord Éomer?"

Éomer frowned a little at that. She seemed to have picked up Éothain's habit of addressing him. When had Hereswið and Éothain become so close?

"You spent almost a year in Minas Tirith, didn't you?"

"Yes," she answered timidly.

"Do you understand the Elvish tongue?"

"A little, my Lord."

"What does _Gi melin _mean?" He wanted someone to affirm his initial interpretation or perhaps just to convince himself to feel better.

"Err…" the young woman blushed at his question, raising her hand to hide her embarrassment. "…my Lord, it means…'I love you'." She tried to peek and catch the expression on his face.

But he quickly turned away.

"My Lord, it is a very informal and intimate declaration. Prince Faramir says to Lady Éowyn all the times," she added carefully.

"Thank you. You may leave."

And he waved her off before grimace shadowed over his face. His knuckles on the window sill whitened.

That stupid woman.

She just had to make his life miserable.

* * *

><p>Lothíriel was not surprised that neither her father nor her brothers were pleased to see her. In fact they were so shocked that it took them a moment to articulate their questions.<p>

"Lothíriel, what are you doing here?" Imrahil asked, unable to hide the shock in his voice.

"This is my home, Father. Can I not return?" She asked back, a little disheartened by the disappointment flashed across her father's face.

"But you were supposed to be in Rohan, my daughter."

He stood in front of her, both hands on her arms.

"I changed my mind."

Tensed, she tore her gaze away so that her father would not see the weakness in her eyes.

"But Éomer sent a letter saying that you both would only be visiting at the end of fall. Why are you back here _alone_? And _early_? Where is Éomer?"

There was worry in Imrahil's voice.

Amrothos stood next to her and looked over her with open disapproval. There was tightness around his jaw but he said nothing.

Lothíriel looked up at her father again. The sight of him using a stick to support his steps sent a dagger in her heart. His hair was greyer and his face more lined than she remembered. Her mouth twitched uncontrollably, she lifted a hand to touch her father's face.

"He did not know that...I left," she admitted stiffly and was, at the same time, appalled by the extremely apparent bitterness in her own tone even though she was so trying hard to suppress her emotions.

"Lothíriel!" Her father exclaimed with disbelief. "Why and how could you-"

"Please, Father! Don't ask! Just let me stay in Dol Amroth! Let me stay with you, Ada," she begged hastily, denying any chance of her father to question her decision to leave Rohan.

All she heard was a sigh from her father.

She thought she would pick up her life, which she once missed so much, easily. Her chamber still looked the same as she left it more than a year ago. The boats and ships near the docks and piers were still similar colours. The same faces still went out to the sea and returned with jumping and gasping fishes. The sun still rose and set, setting the veil of the same vivid colours across the sky.

Her eyes swept across the Ford of Dol Amroth. Her breaths mingled with the morning breeze of autumn. When she told herself that she had left everything behind in Rohan, she truly did. She left behind more than she could afford. Part of her heart remained in Edoras.

She pulled the reins of Silverwing over and patted her steed on its neck. The animal hissed and stamped its feet to complain about the hard stones behind its hooves.

"I know you like green plains of Rohan. But we are back in Dol Amroth now."

She chewed her lower lip at the thought of the people she missed dearly. Hannor. How had the boy coped with her sudden departure? Éothain. She missed the sheepish grin on his face. Gamling, Wynflaéth, Édhere, the children, the maids of Meduseld, the farmers…

Fighting back her emotions, she kicked her legs and commanded her charger to move forward. "Let's have our morning ride, Silverwing."

They leaped forward and travelled down the steps of the white ford onto the white sandy beach. They rode fast, breaking the grey mist. The sea breeze was cold and it stung her eyes. Moisture sprang beneath her eyelids. She sniffed at the chill and made hard effort to blink away the tears.

Everything should be the same as before, back here in Dol Amroth. She changed all her household kitchenware to the silver pieces she brought from Minas Tirith. She should be relieved. And _happy_. But she was not.

Wet sand swirled and water splashed under the galloping hooves. She should have felt the screaming freedom on the horseback as she usually did. It did not come that way today or yesterday. It reminded her of every aspect of the small habits she had developed over her days in Rohan. Habits that she never seemed to be able to get rid of.

Habit of her regular morning rides.

Habit of telling the children about stories and myths of the Firstborns.

Habit of gathering chicken eggs from the farms.

Habit of preparing food in the kitchen.

Habit of sharing jokes with the maids of Meduseld.

Habit of seeing him this first in the morning.

Habit of being around him.

The urge to see him again was so overpowering. Everytime she closed her eyes, images flashed before her eyes, his words echoed in her head and his scent lingered around her.

She pulled the reins hard and her horse reared up, neighing loud. She wheeled it around and headed back to the ford. She still had some memory with her here. The wooden coffer in her room. One that bore the leather imprint of horses. One that contained all the memories of Rohan.

She ran up the stairs and pushed her chamber door open, her eyes searching for the coffer. She pushed her furniture aside, emptied her wardrobes and dressers. Where was it?

Her effort broke out in a thin layer of sweat on her forehead as she continued to look for her missing treasure. She was certain that she had it. She told Moriel to carry it and load it onto the ship when they left Emyn Arnen.

"Moriel! Have you seen my black coffer? The one with leather bound edge." She stopped her maid and asked.

"I thought it was in your room," Moriel replied with a shrug.

"I thought so. But it is not here."

"I don't know, my Lady. I have not seen it."

Lothíriel turned her attention back to her room again. She had checked every corner, every drawer at least twice but it was not here.

She stood froze in the middle of her room. She must have left it in Emyn Arnen. All the journals, the tomes, the lores and…the drawings.

She tried to control her breathing but it was difficult when her heart sank.

How could she have left it? It was all she had.

Whilst she questioned over herself, she did not see the smile on Moriel's face.

A victorious smile.

Or, an evil smirk.

* * *

><p>September 3020 T.A.<p>

Edoras.

Outside the entrance of the orphanage.

His booted steps paced back and forth uncertainly.

The children were having lessons now; apparently Hannor was teaching and repeating the materials that Lothíriel had left. Éomer could hear the young boy's clear and loud voice as he demonstrated some calculation methods to the younger ones. Then it was loud cheering from inside the classroom and the door flung open. All the little ones greeted him and made their way to the playground just in front.

"Lord Éomer." Hannor noticed his lingering presence outside the door. The boy had been less talkative since he learnt that Lothíriel was gone. Éomer did not have the heart to hide the truth from him. So he just told the orphan that he did not know if Lothíriel was ever going to return to Edoras. Éomer remembered the tears that dropped so effortlessly from the shocked face and the silence that burst into heart-wrenching sobs.

He returned the curtsy with a nod and finally walked into the classroom. He had only been here once – the first day of her first lesson. He gazed across the room. Neat as ever. Drawings and paintings of children were pinned on the lower section of the wall. He continued to scan the room and lifted his eyes to the upper section of the room. There, something struck him. Parchments of drawings. Many drawings of great horses, of different gaits, of fitting a horseshoe, of a horseman's life, of days in Edoras. They were so vivid and came to life as he laid his eyes on them.

Seemingly to have read his thought, Hannor made a casual remark, "Lady Lothíriel drew all these." He pointed at the pieces pinned at edge of the ceiling. "She always did when we were outside."

Surprised by the answer, Éomer could not take his eyes off the images. He recognised all of them.

One was the steed of Éothain.

One next to it was the mearas at the Royal Stable.

There was another of the Royal Guards marching.

There were also illustrations of the Guards of the Watch Towers.

A few of The Golden Hall.

Of the maids chatting in the kitchen.

Another that showed the early years of a foal.

She drew her life in Edoras. Things that she saw and felt, she translated them into her drawings. He knew she could draw and paint but he did not know she could do both so well. What else of her that he had missed and overlooked? What else had he now known about her?

He wheeled his feet around and ready to leave.

"You are welcome to visit here as often as you like, my Lord," the Gondorian boy commented as he left.

"I know, Hannor. Thank you," he replied with just the hint of a smile.

Lothíriel said the same to him once but he always thought it was not necessary and he won't find anything interesting in a children classroom.

There was a chest in her room. Édhere found it sitting outside her quarter in Emyn Arnen and decided to bring it back to Edoras. It was kept in her room in Meduseld. Éomer never bothered to look at it, assuming it was just her books.

His heart raced at the eager thoughts of discovering a new side of her might surface from her work. He hurried his steps as he entered the Golden Hall. He pushed open the door of her chamber.

Everything had been still as it was. Her pine scent still lingered in air. Her gowns still hung in the closet, just as she had left them.

A small coffer sat on top of a table. His thumb ran over the leather imprint of horses along the edges and finally rested on an iron lock and he flipped it up. The coffer opened up with a squeak.

There were numerous parchments and papers. Some loose and some leather-bound. He lifted the top pile and spread it over a table. Pulling a chair over, he settled himself and opened the first page of a worn leather-bound tome. His eyes brightened up as he began the first line. It was a record of the Battle of Pelennor Fields, including the dates of the Swan Knights leaving Dol Amroth and their journey to Minas Tirith. There was an atlas of Middle-Earth inserted in between with different notations that did not seem to make sense at the present moment.

As he turned the pages, more struck him. There was drawing of soldiers, more accurately deceased Gondorians and Rohirrim together with names and dates as well as sketches of either their specific armour or weapon. He recognised a few faces there. They might not be as accurate as they should have been given that it was almost impossible to illustrate a living face from a dead man. Each fallen man was marked with a unique sign to indicate where they actually fell on Pelennor Fields and where they were buried later.

And when he reached the last few pages, there was a list of names of the fallen heroes and more shockingly their next of kin if any. And it read, 'procession returned to family.' Next to it, it said either '_sword_', '_spear_', '_helmet_', '_cloak_', '_sigil_' or something else that once belonged to the fallen.

His heart felt heavy. He did not know about this. He pushed the book together and studied its cover again. This time, he saw its title in bold

**The Tales of Unsung Heroes**

and underneath it,

**Battle of Pelennor Fields**

**13****th**** to 15****th**** March 3019 T.A.**

He set the large volume aside and picked up another book from the coffer. This one was loosely-bound, a good indication that it was near to completion. There was no writing on its front cover. His fingers gripped bottom right edge and unfolded it. A sour stung hit his throat as he was not expecting to see this. On an ivory paper, a line of black-ink font sat horizontally across the centre. In Westron, it read:

**Théoden Ednew, Son of Théngel, Seventeenth King of Rohan**

**2948 T.A. to 15****th**** March 3019 T.A.**

He continued and the second page spread out as an oversized parchment. Unfolding it, he saw the picture painted so vividly that it captured the very essence that he remembered.

It was a portrait of his uncle.

Not as a dead man.

Théoden King stood once more proud and majestic next to his royal steed behind the green plains of the Riddermark.

His uncle looked so alive.

Éomer slid his index finger on the dark lines as if he could almost feel his uncle next to him, as if his uncle was breathing in front of his eyes.

He continued to the next few pages which outlined the life and deeds of Théoden. It was also a paragraph that included the dark days of Saruman's spell. Éomer could not deny that he was astonished by all the detail and information enclosed in the book. Perhaps he was more surprised at the effort and length that Lothíriel had gone to compile them together. But it was the last half of the book that finally got him. There were pages and pages of transcripts. He took in every written word with great sentiment. These were the legacies that his uncle had left behind, the life and hope that he gave to the people of the Riddermark.

**…_We remember you forever as the valiant warrior who kept his oath of his forefathers…_**

**…_I never forgot the day you offered us shelter when our cottage was burnt down. Your kindness never left us…_**

**…_I might have lost my leg, but I am willing to give my life just to follow you into battle again, my Lord…_**

Closing his eyes, Éomer took a deep, long breath. Now he slowly recalled the images of Gamling and Lothíriel talking and soothing weeping visitors during the ceremonial funeral of his uncle more than a year ago. His guess was that Gamling was the translator and Lothíriel the keeper as she once said that singing songs were not enough to remember the great deeds of his uncle and that he must never be forgotten for as long as Rohan would last. That woman had a sense of catching one's heart from the very beginning.

He turned again to another page, Éomer felt a gust of emotions building up in his chest, escalating to his nostril stronger as it went when the each word gripped him like haunted memories.

**…_If I could've have followed you to death, I would have, my King. But I made a promise with you that I will serve, Éomer King like I served you, Sire…_**

**…_the days that we rode together will always be the treasure of my heart. How I ever wished I could ride with you again, my King, my Liege…_**

**…_I see you in him for the blood of the House of Eorl runs true in his veins. I shall shape him into a good king, Théoden King. I swore before you that I would mould Éomer to be the best king Riddermark will ever remember…_**

**…_Farewell, my Lord! May we meet again in the hall of our fore-fathers! There I shall stand beside you again and tell you all that your hearts desire, all that you wish to listen. The deeds of your nephew that you will ever be so proud to hear. We will see each other again in death or glory…_**

He read until the very last page and slammed the book closed. He covered his nose with a hand as to fight back the leak of emotions but only to find his palm wet with tears.

He sniffled a few times, hoping to dilute the thickening inside his chest. He rose quickly and emptied everything from the coffer. As he reached the bottom and lifted a loose heap of fragments and notes, a very long scroll fell from underneath. There was a green strap tied around it.

Éomer leaned forward to pick it up. He slid the strap off the large and long scroll and unrolled it. The parchment fell off his hands and settled on the top of the table.

He could not articulate his feeling now. Tides of shock, bewilderment, surprise, amazement and more swam in his swirling mind.

He stared down at it.

It was a close up portrait.

A spellbinding image of an eminent warrior.

Every feature was delivered with remarkable subtlety. The well-defined facial feature. The freckled cheekbones. And most importantly the pair of incisive eyes. His eyes.

And, at the corner of it, it was dated July 3019 T.A.

With a signature: **_Lothíriel_**.

His heart whispered a decision which he had long considered. The slightest doubt was soon wiped off when a messenger arrived at midnight that day, bearing a letter addressed to him.

Éomer turned to the back of the envelope and recognised the royal seal of Dol Amroth.

The letter was short and it was not from Lothíriel.

The few lines read:

_Come before it is too late._

_Elphir._

**TBC**

**Éomer visits Dol Amroth.**

**Imrahil's ultimate test for the King of Rohan.**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Footnotes:<em>**

**_Medieval harvesting period: June to September._**

_**Again I apologise for the late update and the lack of Éothain's story here! I figure I will need another new fic to fit Éothain's love life in as Writ of Shadows and Phantoms was originally written as a plot to finish in ten chapters! But now, look at me! We are at Chapter 28 and Éomer is still not married! Arggghhhhhh!**  
><em>


	29. The Heart Seeker

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

**_Chapter 29: The Heart Seeker_**

* * *

><p><strong>~Amor Vincit Omnia~<strong>

* * *

><p>The council the next morning circled much around already known issues with a few amendments. Éomer dismissed the rest of his council save Gamling and Éothain. He also asked Stán and Édhere to join them for this private conference.<p>

Éomer retrieved the two tomes from a drawer and placed them on a table. He dragged his eyes across the hall darting between his subordinates standing around him. Gamling looked surprised and a little taken aback by the objects whilst Éothain made a hard attempt to swallow a lump. Stán just kept eyeing at his captain and Édhere looked completely confused.

"Care to tell me why I was not told of these?" Éomer asked, arm-crossed, gesturing at the two leather-bound tomes with a little movement of his chin.

"My Lord, Lady Lothíriel thought it was not necessary to inform you. The texts are simply meant as a record," Gamling answered softly.

"Simply as a record? Are you sure, Gamling? When you went around talking to the visitors with her, did it not register to you that she had this in mind?"

Éomer slipped a loose-bound volume open and turned to the pages that brought him teary last night.

"She only mentioned that her only intent was to keep it as a record, my Lord! And I did not see any harm in doing so."

Éomer could hear the urgency in Gamling's voice as he defended Lothíriel.

"You should have told me, Gamling. You should have."

The sudden softness in Éomer's voice caused Gamling to look up at him. Perhaps he was expecting his King to be upset but was surprised that he was not.

Éomer sighed and pulled his lips into a thin line. "And this?" He pointed at a thicker tome but his eyes were fixed on Éothain. "A few of your late Riders are in it."

Éothain who was taking his chance to move further and further away from the discussion table when Gamling was being questioned, hid his face behind his hands. "I don't know anything!"

"Éothain…"

"I told you I don't know!"

"Try again."

"I don't know what you are saying!"

"As if you could lie."

"My Lord Éomer!" Gave up, the young Marshal removed his hands and marched back toward Éomer. "Lady Lothíriel only wanted the families of the deceased to have something to remember, you know, not just the gold or land that we offered as compensation…"

"And?"

"…we dug the dirt to recover some belongings of the fallen before we left Mundberg last July."

"You and Lothíriel?"

"Marshal Elfhelm was helping with some facial description and Stán lent us a hand with a shovel…" Éothain gestured at his Sergeant.

Stán instantly shrugged and claimed he was only following orders. And Édhere, still confused about the need of his presence, just kept saying he was not at the War.

"So, why nobody cared to tell me?"

The old and young riders exchanged looks with each other but remained silent.

"Why does it bother you so much, my Lord?" The older rider, being the most courageous, asked back.

"You know, Gamling, this is what…"Éomer, taken aback by Gamling question, said his mind out slowly although he wished not to be so frank. Looking down at the tomes, he slid his hand cross the pages. His voice was still soft but a little shaky. "... a queen should do, what **_my_** queen should be doing - caring for her people, remembering the deeds of the both the unforgotten and forgotten, and offering consolation to those that have been left behind."

The looks of his riders were replaced by short-lived consternation then quickly by delight. A smile broke crossed the oldest Rider's face. "Indeed, my King. Indeed!"

The young king looked up. His next question earned another delightful look.

"Who would wish to visit Belfalas?"

"Me! Me! My Lord Éomer, this is what I have been waiting for you to say all these weeks!"

"Lord Éomer, this is good news!"

"When are we leaving, Sire? When are we leaving?"

Éomer raised a hand to calm their excitement. He turned to the eldest rider. "Not you, Gamling. Not this time. I am sorry that you would have to stay in Edoras, not only for the reason that you should oversee the matters in my absence but also I cannot take you away when your lady needs you the most."

"But my Lord-"

"My decision is final. It would be cruel of me to steal you away when it is the most important time of your life. I can't do it, old friend!"

Gamling only replied with a silent smile, obviously satisfied with the reason given.

"When are we leaving? Are we taking a boat or a ship? Should we send a messenger to Dol Amroth now?" Came a series of enthusiastic questions.

"Éothain, would you calm down, please!" Éomer frowned at his overly excited Marshal. Was there a need to be so impatient? "No, do not send a messenger. I do not wish to announce my visit so soon. We will send a messenger when we arrive in Edhellond. It should only take ten days to reach Dol Amroth."

"Ten days?" Éothain lifted both his hands trying to re-check Éomer's calculation. "But the journey to Mundberg would have taken ten days…"

"We are going through Dwimorberg."

"The Haunted Moutains!" Éothain bit his lip. "Noooo! It is haunted!"

"It is not anymore. Aragorn released all the undead. The passage is clear."

"But why? Why don't we take the Great River?"

"Because cutting the White Mountains is quicker!" Éomer shot his young Marshal a look, not understanding what was beneath that blond head.

"But whyyyyy? I think it is haunted. Gimli said there are skulls in the cave!" Éothain scratched his beard, unsure if he wanted to visit Belfalas anymore.

"It is a safe passage now. Just send a messenger to Dunharrow. We will ride out in two days and camp there before we cross Dwimorberg. And Éothain, take only a _few_ men. Make sure Stán, Édhere and Hereswið are included in your number."

So it began the preparation to Dol Amroth.

The good news of Éomer visiting Dol Amroth spread like wildfire. The children were particularly over the moon. Hannor dashed into Éomer's room immediately after learning it. He could not stop smiling.

"Do not come back without Lady Lothíriel!" He pointed a warning finger at Éomer before he returned to the orphanage.

Éomer just smiled, amused by the gesture and mischief that the young boy had picked up from his Riders.

It was afternoon when the meeting with Gamling finally drew an end. The crops harvested and the spare stocks were sufficient to cover the coming winter. It was a great burden off his shoulders that the Riddermark would be self-sufficient again and more importantly to be no longer dependent on Gondor for feeding his people.

Although Éomer did not plan to stay long in Dol Amroth, he could not exclude the possibility that he was likely to be away for more than a fortnight, given that the single journey would have taken ten days each way.

Éomer was heading to the kitchen of Meduseld when he stopped behind a door and heard Éothain talking to someone. Peeking from the narrow gap, he saw his young Marshal sitting on a work top and chatting to Hereswið. Éomer's heart warmed as it was a scene much similar to the days when he was watching Lothíriel busying herself with flour and jams.

"I have not seen the sea in my life before!" Éowyn's former handmaiden exclaimed, working on some pastries for tea.

"Either have I!" Éothain extended his arm and grabbed an apple.

"It is SUCH a relief when you told me that Éomer King has finally decided to visit Dol Amroth…" she turned her head around to check nobody was within their proximity, "…it took him long enough!"

"He is not very clever sometimes! A little thick when it comes to things like this, you know!" He made a circular motion with his finger next to his temple.

"You don't know, every time when one of the maids places a dish in front of him, she always wants to run for cover. We have grown so worried that at every meal, he would complain again about the food - being too salty, under cooked or too stiff!"

Éothain bit into his apple and continued to share his thought. "You were not at the breakfast table, weren't you?"

The young woman shook her head. "I've tried to avoid it since I came back. I've heard that he is being fastidious!"

"Of course he is! He somehow has developed this habit of having a warm egg PEELED! Or, the tea mixed to the EXACT amount of milk and sugar! Or the butter of ONE-FIFTH of an inch spread on a piece of bread! When you get it wrong, you will receive that look from him. That disdainful look!" Éothain hopped off the work top and rubbed his hands clean on his tunic. "Who on the whole of Riddermark would pay attention to how thick the butter should be on his bread! I mean, the only person who would ever get things right is his _woman_ for Béma's sake!"

"I can't agree anymore! He came around here a few times! He would show up suddenly with some interesting object, it could be a piece of vegetable or some parcel of meat, and he would almost call out Lady Lothíriel's name, saying '_Look, what I have found, Loth-_' and stop abruptly and come to remember that she was not here anymore. And everyone in the kitchen would turn to look at him, not knowing either to greet him or not! Then, we had to return to our tasks at hand, pretending nothing had happened and acting like normal! It was so embarrassing! It still drives all the maids insane!"

Their share of small talk continued until Hereswið pushed the pastries into an oven and turned around and saw Éomer standing at the kitchen door. A frown knitted between his brows and his jaws was clapped tight.

"You are lucky that you are not dragged down to the training field every morning before sunrise! Yesterday morning, he swung Gúthwinë so hard that I thought I was going to die!"

She gulped and swished her fingers anxiously in front of the young Marshal to stop him from talking.

Éothain continued to indulge himself in his little story-telling until he saw a throat-cutting gesture from Hereswið.

He squeezed his eyes and swallowed hard and asked quietly without making a sound. His lips read: _Oh shit!_ _He is behind me, isn't he?_

Hereswið nodded eagerly a few times.

The cough from behind finally made Éothain turn to greet his King.

"My Lord Éomer!" He forced a smile, absolutely convinced that Éomer had heard every word of their private discussion.

Hereswið only bowed so low that she could not be anymore lower.

Éomer scowled at the young pair as he dropped a dead goose on a work top. He went to clean his hands, before leaving them alone.

"The soup is too salty because some numb head added the salt twice!"

His voice trailed off as he walked out of the kitchen.

Hereswið interchanged a look with Éothain and burst out in laughter. Éomer was not angry with them! They escaped!

It finally came the day that they began their trip to Dol Amroth. Éomer stood at the front porch of Meduseld, disbelieved and bewildered with what he was seeing. Rows and rows of Riders, ready with their camping gear and bedrolls, assembled at a lower open space of Edoras.

He turned to his grinning Marshal who stood next to him tall and proud; and pointed at the mounted Riders, "I told you to take only a few men, Éothain! Not five dozen!"

Éothain responded with a shrug. "I asked who wanted to visit the sea and many answered! And as their captain, I made a virtue of necessity to agree."

"But sixty Riders! We are not invading Dol Amroth for Béma's sake!"

"Mind you, my Lord Éomer, I've singled out all the married and old men! Otherwise it could easily be the whole éored!"

Éomer blew a long breath and put on his helmet.

"Forth Eorlingas!"

Men on horses rode out of Edoras, with a white horse tail leading ahead.

Green cloaks flew whipping wildly in the autumn breeze.

Songs were heard under the thundering hooves.

* * *

><p>The Rohirrim column passed through Dwimorberg, admiring the snow-covered sharp summit of Starkhorn and misty peaks of the White Mountains.<p>

Everyone was merry except Éothain who had been reckless until they left the passage.

He had been clinging on to an amulet which he believed would chase away any evil spirits. He kept it with him all the time. All the times when he was taking a wash in the river. All the times when he answered his natural calls.

His King could only sigh and shake his head helplessly.

In the mid of their journey, they camped at Erech to replenish their provisions. The following three days they settled next to River Morthond. On the sixth day, they arrived in Edhellond, the Elf Harbour. Éomer sent a messenger to Dol Amroth to notify his arrival. His letter reached Imrahil just two days before he was due to arrive.

Imrahil eyed each word in the letter carefully. He turned the letter around to study the seal it carried again. It was correct. The red royal seal of Rohan.

His three sons gathered around him. Elphir, to Imrahil's surprise, was the at least anxious of all. Erchirion could not stop mumbling to himself about the deliberately brought-forward visit by the Rohirrim. Amrothos made the intent to inform his sister about this but Imrahil stopped him.

"Lothíriel is already on the fishing boat. She won't be back until two days later."

"But that will be too late to tell her."

"Let it be," his father insisted. "Amrothos, please arrange the housing and all the necessity to accommodate the Rohirrim. Elphir, inform the council of this, arrange a feast and a few excursions. A visit to Belfalas shall never be complete without a trip to the sea!"

Imrahil walked over to his second child and put a hand on his shoulder to calm Erchirion. "You come with me to meet the Rohirrim at the North Gate."

"But Father-"

He cut off his son and stern his voice was. "And leave the matter between Lothíriel and Éomer to me. Do not interfere."

* * *

><p>The Rohirrim arrived a few hours earlier than expected. It was before dawn that Imrahil waited at the North Gate of Dol Amroth with Erchirion. He could see the anxiety and anger that was drawing the patience out of his second child.<p>

"Why did he only inform us two days before his arrival?" Erchirion finally open his mouth to complain. "I mean, Father, with all respect, he is a renowned warrior, a king, why did he not tell us when he left Edoras?"

Imrahil watched his agitated son pacing impatiently. The Prince of Dol Amroth peered into the still dark horizon. "It never occurs to you the reasons behind his late-announced visit?"

"He is a careless and disorganised person despite being an efficient warrior on the battlefield. I do hold high regard for him, Father but I cannot bring myself to agree with him on this matter. Giving us two days of notice prior to his arrival is a little unjust. And why did he have to visit three weeks earlier than his initial schedule?"

"You are wrong, Erchirion."

His child stopped moving and looked at him.

Imrahil squeezed his eyes at the first sight of a flickering light. "The notice is short, indeed. Firstly, he did so to ensure that we could not decline his request. If I had not agreed to his visit, it would have taken the messenger two days to send the reply and by that time, the Rohirrim would have arrived anyway. He has been organised and has everything according to his plan. And secondly…" he gestured at his son to descend from a watch tower as more moving figures became visible. "…what is so important in Dol Amroth that makes him he bring forward his visit?"

They came to stand in front of a pair of gigantic carved stone door.

Erchirion looked at his father wordlessly. He knew the answer to that second question but he could not hold back his anger. "If Sister was so important to him, why did he not come to Dol Amroth immediately but waited until now, until mid fall?"

"All these years, you always say Elphir is being too protective of Lothíriel. It is natural for older siblings to be protective of younger ones. Elphir lets Lothíriel the opportunities to experience the assorted facets of life. It is only when she has encountered a problem that he steps in to offer his counsel. Of all the brothers, _you_ are the most protective, Erchirion." Imrahil, arm-crossed behind his back, turned to his son.

Erchirion was surprised by his father sudden remark but was unable to deny the truth in his father's words.

"You are always able to predict your sister's next move and stop her even before she gives a try. Let her learn. She is stronger than you remember, my son. She will decide her fate herself. It is time that we take a step back in our role. And, you really think Éomer did not wish to come to Dol Amroth as soon as he found out Lothíriel had left? Rohan is recovering from the War. Most of her land is scorched down to ashes by the devilry of Saruman. I won't be surprised that Éomer wanted to be certain that his people have enough harvest to cover this coming winter before he could ride away for more than a month!"

Just as Erchirion wanted to argue, a blow from a horn rang clear and loud in the air, sending a group of seabirds scattering off the dark land.

A herald, also the bearer of the royal banner of Rohan, dressed in Rohirrim fine armaments, rode forward to formally announce the arrival of the Rohirrim. "His majesty, King Éomer of Rohan, wishes to announce his arrival!"

Imrahil and his son bowed at the Rohír. "Dol Amroth welcomes thee."

The Lord of Belfalas raised a hand and the tower guards blew their trumpets. The city leaped into life with colourful torches lighting up from the entrance path to the main ford of Dol Amroth. The flags of silver and blue whipped cracking loud in the sea breeze.

Imrahil mounted on a grey horse and steered it forward to meet the approaching Rohirrim column. To meet Éomer, to be precise.

"It is an honour to have you here, King Éomer," he greeted as he rode side by side with the King of Rohan.

"I thank you, Prince Imrahil. You must forgive me for the abruptness in this matter," he replied with a hint of smile.

"Do not speak as such! We hope you won't find our hospitality lesser."

"I hope my large number of company would prove themselves…" Éomer paused, looking back at the sixty odd horses behind him, "…controlled and behaved. They have been a little excited at the mention of the word '_sea'_."

The Lord of Belfalas chuckled.

Imrahil led the company to up the stone stairs. He could see that many of them were astonished by the structures of his landing. Even Éomer could not help but admire the craftsmanship as they went passed the still sleepy City.

When they reached the hall, the company was immediately offered wash and breakfast. Imrahil looked up at a window. The first light of the day began to break through the veil of dark. A thought came to his mind.

"Lord Éomer, have you seen sunrise over the sea?"

"No, I have not."

"Perhaps you wish to join me at the upper balcony?"

"I would be pleased, my friend."

Imrahil gave instructions to his sons to take care of the remaining Rohirrim whilst he led the Lord of Rohan to the upper court.

He accepted a walking stick from his man. Éomer arched an eyebrow at this but said nothing. Imrahil simply ignored and kept his friend busy with the history of Dol Amroth.

"Dol Amroth is built around a sea wall, mainly to protect the city from rising tides as well as the enemies. Long ago, we believed that it was a line of cliffs. As times passes and the waves keep clashing, the erosion shaped the coastal landscape, leaving this hill upon which the House of Adrahil had built their ford."

They came to the top of the City. Imrahil watched the change of expression on Éomer's face as they stood at the most ideal location to take in the beauty of Dol Amroth. The young king did not seem tired at all. In fact he showed no sign of fatigue despite having ridden many hours just before.

Imrahil had a test for this young man but that would have to wait until a few days later. At this moment he wanted to see the young king's reaction with his own eyes, to affirm his initial speculation.

"There are several docks and piers that have been used by the fishermen as long as the Sindarin passage has recorded," he continued to point at the empty quay. "The fishing boats should arrive shortly after the sunrise."

As he spoke, a great solar deity rose over the Bay of Belfalas, casting its golden sheen upon the mirror sea below.

"Béma's!"

He heard a gasp from the young man who was more than amazed by his first sight of sunrise over the sea.

The glowing sphere rose slowly into the purple morning sky, hiding partially behind the silver clouds. Bright beams illuminated the peninsula, the city seemed to be rejuvenated by the warmth cast upon it, growing more vivid with the each passing moments. The sea birds sang as they flew above the shore.

"Its beauty is behind words, Imrahil!" the young Rohír exclaimed.

"Indeed, my friend! There is a causeway just to the left of the city, as you can see. When the tide runs high, it will be partially submerged. The tides in this area change quickly, almost as swiftly as a galloping horse! Quite a view in the evening, I must say."

His reference to a horse earned a chuckle from Éomer.

"Then I must see it with my own eyes."

"I am sure you will have the opportunity to. And look!" Imrahil pointed at the objects approaching the docks. "The fishing boats have returned."

Éomer squinted and leaned forward to take a good look at the small harbour. Men and women, young and old started disembarking from the boats, laughing and joking joyfully. Imrahil continued to observe as something or someone on the pier caught Éomer's attention. The young man's eyes lit up as he gazed down at the moving men and women.

A young lady let out a hearty cry, helping the people to carry the fishes on to the shore. She wore a dark colour cloak that stretched out like raven's wings under the sea breeze. She lifted her head and the hood fell back off her head.

Imrahil watched as surprise dawned on the face of Horse-lord. He believed Éomer cast him a quick glimpse from his shoulder.

Lothíriel laughed at children who gathered around her asking for sea shells. The warm sunlight danced on her face as she made her way back to the ford.

_**He did it on purpose.**_

Imrahil did it on purpose.

That was the first thought that crossed Éomer's mind when he spotted Lothíriel among the fishermen and fisherwomen. And all this time, he was under the scrutiny of Imrahil. The Prince of Belfalas probably read all that was written on his face.

"Perhaps we should return to the hall where your company awaits us," the Prince offered.

Éomer could but reply with a smile and followed Imrahil. But within, he wondered Imrahil's intention, not only that he did not see Lothíriel when he arrived at the gate just now, but judging from the sight, he believed that Lothíriel was not told of his visit either. She would not have been out fishing if she knew he was coming, would she?

* * *

><p>She pulled her steed back into the stable and found it was more crowded than when she left two days ago. A particular neigh caught her attention. A contemptuous one actually.<p>

She turned around slowly and saw a grey stallion, standing proud in the left box.

_Firefoot?_

On a fence, it sat a saddle with horse heads of golden rims weaving along the curves of the front pommel and back cantle. She knew that saddle. She ran her fingers over the rims, trying to convince herself that she was not dreaming.

_This could not be true._

She stared at his steed wide-eyed. The beast complained again, probably disdainfully at the Belfalsian stable. Her mind went completely absent. A loud snort woke her up. She found her emotions dwelled between uncertainty and delight.

Her feet turned towards the on-duty stable-master.

"Did we receive any guests this morning?"

"Yes, my Lady. The King of Rohan and his sixty-odd riders arrived just less than an hour ago."

"Thank you."

She put in all her effort trying to sound normal. In wide steps, she paced swiftly back to the ford. Her heart hammered loudly in her heart. So loud that she could hear the echoes in her ears. The wonderful sense of anticipation within her soared with every step closer to the ford.

"He is here! He is in Dol Amroth!"

She spoke her thoughts out without realising it. Her cheeks were burning and her lungs were pushing constantly for more air. She was not certain if it was her quick walking, or, the strong urge to see him that bated her breathing.

Her feet stopped right in front of a pair of massive slabs of dark oak with iron bands. Behind these doors, she would find him.

Why was she here? Why did she run all the way to the ford? She questioned her own sanity. It was irrational but sensibility did not register in her mind anymore. Her brain was clogged with the desire to see him. _Right now._

She drew a deep breath to regain her composure and then she slowly pushed the giant doors open.

The hinges squeaked and the view in the Hall widened as the doors drew apart.

She saw him. That reddish brown armour. That blond mane. That striking presence. He was standing next to her father, his back facing her. They stopped their conversation and he turned his head around.

His signature frown still knitted shallowly between his brows. His face was covered with travel dust.

Their gazes locked. There was a silence. It seemed as if time had stopped.

Waves of emotions flushed down from her head to toes. The overflowing joy crushed at her from all directions, coursing into each of her veins. It was hard to suppress her lips from moving upwards. She could not deny all parts of her were happy.

Very happy indeed to see him.

Struggling to remind herself the formal courtesy, she gave him a polite nod and switched her gaze to her father.

"Good morning, Father. I did not know King Éomer would be in Dol Amroth! I saw Firefo-, I mean, King Éomer's steed at the stable."

She found her voice shaky. The cool mask she put on just before risked slipping off any moment. She must keep reminding herself to maintain the formal courtesy in her speech. It was Dol Amroth here, not Edoras. It was her father's landing. She must show her manner as a child of Prince of Dol Amroth.

"The messenger arrived two days ago, Lothíriel. I meant to tell you but you were already out in the sea."

Her father's words brought her to realise the bluntness of her behaviour. It was a silly question. Why should her father need to check with her about visitors?

"I am sorry, Father. I did not mean to be impolite."

"No worries, Lothíriel. It was indeed sudden."

"The fault lies with me not Prince Imrahil, my Lady," Éomer finally spoke, "the proposed visit was in another one month but there are matters that _cannot _wait. I apologise if I have caused any inconvenience by my sudden presence. "

His words almost made her beam. He finally came! And almost a month earlier! She always thought he would be so angry with her that he would never keep his promise of visiting Dol Amroth.

She felt her heart pounding again and her ears burning hot. She hoped neither her father nor he noticed. What should she say? She screened the hall, trying to escape from the awkward happiness that was overpowering her. Someone was not here when he was supposed to be.

"Where is Lord Gamling?"

"He is in Edoras. Wynflaéth is pregnant."

Wynflaéth? Pregnant? How much had she missed in Edoras? How she wished she would just appear in Meduseld and congratulate the couple! They were so lovely and caring. They-

"Perhaps, you would like to show King Éomer around Dol Amroth after we are finished in the afternoon."

Her father's word broke her out of her short reverie.

"Yes, I could do that…"She breathed, standing there, still not convinced by his presence. She could not take her eyes off him. His face still showed its fair share of sunburn and freckles. His appearance scruffy as always. His emerald eyes keen as always.

"Lothíriel, you should get changed."

It was Elphir who reminded her.

"Yes, of course!" she looked at herself, embarrassment struck her as she was dressed in a fisherman outfit, grim and dirty, probably still stinking from the smell of the fishes. The worst way to greet a guest!

She curtsied quickly before leaving, "I will see you later, my Lords."

* * *

><p>Now Éomer was certain the Imrahil did everything it on purpose but the intention remained hidden from him. Was it so difficult to send a messenger to the dock to inform Lothíriel of his arrival? No, it, obviously, wasn't. Was Imrahil testing him? Or was he testing his daughter too?<p>

At dining times, everything was just as high and polite society would be. The leader of the guests, that was him, sitting next to Imrahil. The three sons of Imrahil were positioned next to his Marshal and his third and fourth in command. Lothíriel, was very likely and deliberately, arranged to be seated five chairs away from him, next to Hereswið.

Imrahil had offered the Rohirrim some local products as a welcome banquet. Éomer found it a little too luxurious to feed everyone of his company a fish as to him, fishing seemed a dangerous profession.

And the dining manner was a little different to the Riddermark. The Rohirrim always served food in huge plates or pots and then dished appropriate amount out to each hungry soul. It was very rare that dishes were served individually. It was also normal for the Rohirrim to share a roasted dish. Pigs and hunting prizes such as boars or deers were often set above an open firepit and people were welcome dig out any portions as they wished. Éomer thought there were enough unnecessary table manners at his sister's place but Dol Amroth proved him wrong. There were four sets of cutlery: starter, soup, main and dessert. All the kitchenware was made of silver, even the chalice.

Expecting Imrahil to question the intent of his visit at the lunch table, he was surprised nothing was brought up. Their conversation lingered around their journey through the White Mountains and their stop at Edhellond.

As dishes were brought on to the table, all the Horse-lords eyed their plates suspiciously and almost everyone turned to look at their King, expectantly for an answer.

Éomer stared down at the small plate in front of him. The thing in it was strange. Almost black tiny spheres, shiny and slimy probably, sitting on top of a piece of buttered bread. It did not look appealing at all. And little things looked alive?

His hands hesitated at picking up a fork.

"Lord Éomer."

He lifted his eyes and saw Lothíriel talking to him. She took a piece of the same bread and pointed at the heap of dark globules on top. "These are fish eggs. Like eggs from chicken, but these are from a fish called sturgeon."

"Fish eggs?" asked one of the Royal Guards.

"Yes," she took a quick glance across the sitting guests and returned her eyes to Éomer. "We have them as a starter in Belfalas. You should try. It is very nice."

Her words did little to convince the Rohirrim but Éomer watched as she demonstrated, feeding the piece of bread into her mouth.

"Please try, my friend." Imrahil gestured at the dish to courage his guests.

Not completely ensured that the fish eggs were edible, Éomer took a small bite and was surprised it was not at all as disgusting as it looked. Except that the eggs were exploding in his mouth. It was still strange.

The Rohirrim followed the suit of their King, each beginning his or her first gastronomic adventure of sea product.

"They pop in my mouth! Oh, delicious!" Hereswið cried, covering her mouth with a hand.

Lothíriel smiled at the younger woman. "I am glad you like it."

She turned to Éomer and asked, "How do you find it, my Lord?"

After taking a sip of his water, he wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and replied in a neutral tone, "It tastes better than it looks."

"Don't judge a horse by its saddle." She smiled.

Absence does make heart grow fonder.

Her smile nearly made his heart leap. He pretended to take another sip when the maids came to collect the empty plates and brought the main course. Assorted cooked vegetables were also placed in the middle of the long table.

This time it was a huge parcel of red fillet with thin pale lines trailing across it. The hot-steaming dish did smell nice. Éomer briefly recalled there was a very similar dish at Éowyn's wedding. Except that it was dry and cured at that time.

More serving maids came buzzing around with small plates of sauces and chopped herbs.

Just when a maid tried to sprinkle some herbs on his dish, someone shouted, "NO!"

He looked up and saw a slender arm in mid air. He could see embarrassment flushed her face red.

Lothíriel extended her arms to stop the maid, but realised her shout was a little too loud that it caught the attention of everyone, she pulled herself back and spoke in a lower tone, "King Éomer does not like pasley."

That earned an inquiring look not only from her brothers but also her father. But all the Rohirrim were busy with their food as if they were used to the interaction between their king and the Lady of Dol Amroth, which of course, they were.

Éomer cleared his throat. "I don't need any herbs. Thank you."

"This is sockeye salmon, King Éomer," Elphir made the introduction to the marine product.

"It is very red for a fish."

"Which means it is the best fish in the sea."

The fillet looked safe physically. There was nothing sticking out. The image of Lothíriel consuming the poor pike in Emyn Arnen came back to haunt him. The bones. He now understood why she was using her fingers to clear the bones. He looked at the fillet again and was not sure where to begin.

"Are you not eating, my Lord?"

"Are there bones?"

It would be extremely impolite to have to split out the bones in front of Imrahil. Not that his table manner was that bad but he did have some pride as the ruler of the Riddermark.

She quickly stood up and went around the table to his side. She took a spare fork and parted the fillet from its midsection. "If there are any bones, they would be in the middle. See, there are none."

Forced into close proximity by the confined space between the chairs, she stood towering over him with her scent swirling into his nostril. Her hair had grown. She had lost some weight. Éomer knew he was struggling with the slide of his control. It reminded him the night of Éowyn's wedding and…their last night in Emyn Arnen.

A cough brought the almost solid silence.

He forced a smile. "Thank you. I should be fine from now."

"I will leave it with you then."

She returned to her seat.

Éomer watched her as she moved, consciously aware that Imrahil's eyes never left them. Never left him. How much had the Prince devise from his face, Éomer did not know but he was certain that Imrahil did have something in mind which he would figure out sooner or later.

The afternoon was spent strolling in the City. The Rohirrim were accompanied by all the children of Imrahil. Much to Éomer's dismay, Elphir had offered to lead the tour and Lothíriel volunteered to be at the end of the column so that the rest of the Riders were not left out. From time to time, he could hear her bursting out in Rohirric and sharing jokes with Éothain, Hereswið, Stán and Édhere.

The group stopped at a market square. Almost all traders, merchants and vendors knew her. They waved and came out to greet her. And she waved back with big smiles on her face every time. She was exactly how she was in Edoras and Dol Amroth.

Some approached the Riders with gifts and others offered beverages. Younger ones stayed a little further, whispering among themselves. Some girls looked away, blushed at the sight of the tall and blond men. There were occasionally some children who came closer to touch their armour and hair, and giggled away when the Riders tried to communicate in their heavily accented common speech.

"You have horses that fly?" A young girl asked timidly.

"No, little one! Our horses walk and run like the horses of Belfalas."

"But my uncle told me your horses are as big as trolls and they could stamp and make holes so deep and big for me to swim in it."

Several Royal Guards stopped and kneed, smiling at the children. "They are big but not as big as trolls."

"Can I see your horse?"

"Of course, you can!" A rider laughed.

"And is your hair hard?"

"No, it is not. Why?"

"Because it shines like beaten gold."

"Do you want to touch it?"

The little girl hesitated but soon reached out to stroke the blond locks of a rider.

"It is so soft!" She exclaimed, waving at her friends to join her.

All the children standing behind her rushed toward the rider, each taking a strand of his hair and admired him like a new toy. They exchanged words in their Elvish tongue and one of the boys looked up at the Rider and offered a bouquet.

"Is this for me?" The Rider beamed at the gift.

"Yes! Lothíriel said you are the heroes who saved Gondor!"

Happily accepted the flowers, the Rider gave each child an embrace and waved at his King, shouting loudly, "My Lord! It is the first time in my life that I've ever been offered flowers! I am so in love now!"

With that encouragement, young women who waited at the Rohirrim to pass in front of their street, started throwing flowers from their balconies. The Horse-lords jumped and hopped to grab them and returned the women's gratitude with brights smiles and loud whistles!

"I've got flowers too! Thank you, sweetie!" One winked at a blushing woman.

"Hey there, beauty! Your flowers are here! With me!" Another waved loud and clear at a lady hiding behind a tree.

Éomer smiled faintly and shook his head slightly whilst his men continued to bask themselves in the warmth and affection of the Belfalasians.

On the second day, they were invited to an excursion on a ship. All the Rohirrims were very excited. For many it was their first time touching the sand, seeing the salt waters and being on a transport that could actually float on waters. The Riders Trio which was Éothain, Stán and Édhere had been talking non-stop about it since the announcement was made last night at the dinner table. When the morning came, they finished their breakfast hastily before everyone else and went down to the shore with the youngest son of Imrahil.

The rest of their comrades joined them shortly after. Laughter echoed in the morning breeze as they took off their boots, removed their socks and slumped their feet to feel the sinking sand. Some were scampering like under-aged adults, splashing waters at each other.

And finally the ship arrived and the men and women screamed and yelled like children. Éomer felt the need to apologise sometimes when his people became too loud but Imrahil just smiled and told them to be themselves. That was not the only matter that troubled Éomer. Imrahil still had not asked him about Lothíriel. And he still had not had a chance to speak to her in private either. The hospitality offered by the Lord of Dol Amroth was beyond expectations. But something invisible sat between the two rulers. There was an indescribable formality in Imrahil's tone that Éomer did not like. He was certain that the Prince did not talk as such when they first met in Mundberg.

"I don't feel so well," said one of the Royal Guards.

"Me either," Éothain put in. Blood had drained from his face and he looked weak and wobbly, hanging onto the main mast of the main deck where most of them stood.

Éomer frowned at his men. He warned them not to eat too much at breakfast, knowing some of them would have problem with sea sickness.

"Have some of these. Lady Lothíriel gave them to me before we boarded." Hereswið took something out of her pouch.

"Oh, what is this?" The young Marshal straightened up and accepted the offer. After a few bits, he cried out as if a sudden surge of energy returned to him. "I don't feel so unwell anymore!"

Éomer sighed at the young Rohír's terrible attempt to woo the woman. "You really need to try harder, Éothain!"

"I am being sincere here, my Lord Éomer! This thing, this fruit, wicked-looking thing, whatever it is, it works! The nausea is gone! And it does not taste that bad at all. A little salty, a little sour and a little sweet!"

"It is a dried plum!" Lothíriel came up from the cabin and started distributing the remedy to all the pale-looking Horse-lords. "Sour taste will suppress the nausea urge momentarily. Stay in the middle of the ship, you will feel better! And don't take any milk product when you are back onshore."

"Maybe it is better that he feels a little sick," Éomer inserted in Rohirric as he reached out a palm to accept the dried snack from Lothíriel. "He has been talking so much lately that it hurts my ears."

"Don't curse your man! He is here to enjoy himself!" She grinned and replied in his tongue, resting her back against the wooden barrier, next to him. She let the wind brush against her skin as the morning sun warmed her face.

His eyes were fixed on her. The breath had become trapped in his throat and he stared at her for a moment, forcing himself to inhale and exhale calmly, knowing some eyes were on him. Watching.

He hated being watched.

He looked at the little wrinkled dried fruit in his palm and took a small bit. He did not dislike it or like it in particular. "Thank you." He forced the word between his lips and she gave a brief nod, smiling at him.

The ship took a turn and it was moving up to the northern peninsula of Dol Amroth. High standing layers of sandstones and rocks folding against each other came into sight. Winged creatures soared above the clear blue sky.

"Oh Béma!" The Rohirrim were instantly drawn to the emerging breath-taking view.

Laughing, Lothíriel leaned forward and pointed ahead. "That is the famous Arched Cliff of Dol Amroth! When you rode down from River Mothrond, you were just behind the rock. But I don't think you could see it, especially when you were travelling in the dark!"

"Look! What are these? They are funny with their bright red bills and feet!" Hereswið cried, pointing at a group of black and white birds resting on the most vertical rock exposure.

Éomer tried to keep his eyes straight ahead on the scene ahead as Lothíriel explained the creature that drew the new attention of his company.

"They look hilarious as usual! The children often call them clowns of the ocean. But they do have a real name – puffins."

"Puffins? What a name!"

"And do you see the one that looks like a hawk with long wings?"

"Yes!"

"That is an osprey. And one of those floating on the water with reddish-pink bill, white body with chestnut patches and a black belly, and a dark green head and neck, it is called pied waterfowl!"

His eyes flew back to her as she continued to impress his fellow company.

"This is unbelievable!" Hereswið was completely astonished by the coastal wild life.

"We should visit the fish market some day. You will see strange underworld creatures that you have never seen before!" She laughed again with her excited companions.

Éomer found his lips curled into a smile. Within, he pushed and reminded himself that he really needed to talk to Imrahil in private the next day. Matter at hands could not wait.

On the third day, his wish was answered and it came with a shocking test. Imrahil had invited him for a morning ride but only to stop at a balcony of the southern court. There, the Prince of Dol Amroth urged the rest to resume their planned activity but kept Éomer. He even dismissed his daughter.

Lothíriel watched cautiously when her father led Éomer to the Garden of Mithrellas. Why did he do that? That garden had always been the most private property of the House of Adrahil. No visitors were ever allowed. Even Her sister-in-laws were only able to visit after they were married to her brothers. What was her father doing?

She stayed there for a moment on horseback, still looking at Imrahil and Éomer, but was broke off when another urge came from her father.

"You should go and join the pack."

Her eyes narrowed momentarily, sensing the dismissing tone in her father's voice.

"I will ride along the north beach. There will be less people." She steered her steed and descended the stone stairs.

They needed a private moment, she thought.

No. Her father needed a private moment with Éomer.

**_Yes, he did need a private conference with the King of Rohan._**

Imrahil watched until his youngest child touched the shore and turned back to the Rohír who frowned.

"Is it safe for her to ride along without guards?"

There was obvious concern and question in Éomer's voice.

Imrahil threw him a look, before opening a small wooden gate that led to the private garden. "May I remind you that she does not carry the title of a princess. Therefore, she has no guards, Éomer."

That stirred some tightness around the young king's jaws but he said nothing. Imrahil could tell that he was not pleased.

They climbed up a set of short stairs and came in front of a craved statue. Imrahil stood silent in front of the marble figure. Éomer just looked at it. It was not too old, not as ancient as the great door of Minas Tirith but it aged enough that it could have stood there for a good few years.

Imrahil continued to watch the young man's reaction as flash of surprise and realisation struck the Horse-lord. He must have seen and detected the similarity and familiarity. After a few moments, Éomer closed his eyes and gave a polite bow to it.

"They look very much alike. Striking resemblance," Éomer remarked without turning to Imrahil.

Imrahil smiled, quite impressed. "Yes, they do. Lothíriel inherits much of her mother's appearance and virtues."

"She is beautiful. How… did she…"

The question went unfinished but Imrahil knew exactly what Éomer wanted to ask.

"Illness took her. So young, and wilful but dead before her time. It is never fair when someone you love dies too young. She was only at her thirty-seventh summer when she left us. Her story had just begun but death just tore all the pages away. Sometimes I wonder how she would be like if she were alive. Yes, I do miss her…" Unable to breathe out the regret in his voice, Imrahil squeezed a weak grin. "…but life goes on."

They resumed their stroll and reached a small pavilion. Imrahil did not miss the surprise expression on Éomer's face when he saw a set of board game was laid on a wooden table.

"I thought we could spend some time in peace. I've heard from Amrothos that you are good at this." He deliberately cast a challenge look at Éomer.

The doubtful frown returned to the young Horse-lord. But he said no more and proceeded with the wish of Imrahil.

The game was progressing very slowly. Imrahil wanted to make it clear that he did not invite Éomer to share a board game but to talk. The conversation looped around life in Rohan but soon took a drastic turn.

"Could you possibly explain why Lothíriel is speaking Sindarin now, given that she lost that linguisticability since she was shocked to mute for the two years after her mother passed away? It has been almost nine years ago since I last heard her speaking our Elvish tongue. She spoke her last Sindarin word on the night my wife died."

Imrahil sat back and crossed his arms.

Éomer seemed taken aback by the sudden change in the subject.

So it began.

"She refused to say anything to me when I asked," Imrahil pushed when he did not get immediate response from the young Rohír.

"I did not know. She did mention that she had a dream about her mother when she was unconscious. And when she woke up from that dream, she found herself her ability to converse in her Elvish tongue had returned."

"Why was she unconscious? How had it come to that? What has actually happened between you and my daughter, Éomer?" Imrahil switched out of his friend role and slipped back as the father of his daughter. His voice was commanding and demanding.

His eyes darkened and he turned to stare at Éomer when their conversation unfolded the Dunlending incident. Struggled to keep himself calm, his fingers curled into fists and his knuckles whitened, Imrahil could not deny he was angry with Éomer for putting his child as risk but he must, too, admit Lothíriel held significant responsibility for her own action. It was painful to hear it all, knowing there was nothing he could do about it or to lessen the damage.

"So, that was how I found her. I am deeply and truly sorry that your daughter has suffered in my hands. I've failed you and your trust in me," Éomer admitted stiffly, grimacing at his own words.

Imrahil saw both guilt and regret float in the emerald eyes of the young man.

"I don't think you could ever repair the damage, Éomer."

His voice came out colder than he thought.

"That is why I am here." Éomer stared back at him defiantly.

"What else do you think you can offer?"

"I am asking your permission to marry your daughter, Imrahil," Éomer declared brusquely.

That came out as honest and as blunt as it could be. He was expecting this, was he not? Imrahil asked himself. He thought he was prepared when the question was raised but it still hit him. He had tried to test the young man's patience, with excessive formality and obstructing any opportunities that he might be able to remain alone with his daughter and Éomer knew exactly how to deliver it when the time came.

"I'm impressed that you still have the courage to ask." But he was not going to play it easy with Éomer.

"Only cowards dare not ask what belong to them." Came another surprising answer.

"Are you implying that she belongs to you?" Imrahil arched an eyebrow. The conversation was getting more interesting than he initially imagined.

"Her heart at least," the Horse-lord declared with unhidden confidence in his voice.

"Do you _love_ her?"

Imrahil knew the answer but he wanted to hear it from the man himself.

"I do," his answer was prompt. And he added on second thought almost immediately, "very much."

Imrahil regarded the man in front of him with another long weighing look. Confident, proud and defiant. The look in his eyes warned Imrahil clearly that he would not back down. But he would not push for an immediate answer from Imrahil either.

Imrahil could but smiled. "You really amaze me, Éomer."

"I am just trying to follow what my heart seeks." His tone was softer now, less threatening than just moments ago.

Laughing, Imrahil stood up and peered over the blue horizon. He felt a heavy weight had just been lifted off his shoulders.

"On the day, she was born. I knew it that I'd wished to be there for her forever, to watch her grow. She used to have that innocent look that would steal every heart away. I've spent my life watching her running, jumping, shouting and calling out my name. Then when she lost her smiles, I had always prayed that she would find you someday. I knew the first time I saw you with her that it was only a matter of time."

At this point, the Prince of Dol Amroth let out a sigh.

"A matter of time?"

"On the coronation day of King Elessar, when I saw you both dancing in the hall. There was this very brief moment that you both were looking at each other's face. Just that moment that you were so absorbed that it left everything else absent in your presence. It was not so obvious at the time, even for both of you, but I knew it would come. And I am certain that now I should not stand in your way."

Imrahil tapped his fingers lightly on the stone beam and continued, "How could that beautiful woman standing next to you on the deck yesterday be the same freckled face that I knew? The one that I've read tales to. The one whom I've tucked in bed all those nights. The one who cried so loud on her first pony ride." He turned around and stood in front of the blond man.

His voice was sharp but Imrahil could not help it.

"But I loved her first. I held her first when she was born. I heard her first laugh. She gave me her first smile. I had been the only man in her life until she met you. I was enough for her. She still means everything to me, so love her like you would love nobody else!"

The young King rose to his feet and responded with an eager nod of promise.

Even so it was still hard for Imrahil. He had always held a very empowering sense of fatherhood ever since Lothíriel was born. It was still painful to finally admit that another man would replace him and take care of his daughter.

"Now she spreads her wings and flies. But nothing could ever shadow the bond that I share with her. She is and will always be my princess, Éomer! Be careful when you hold her."

"You have my word, Imrahil."

Imrahil breathed a relief. But it was still too easy for this young man to claim his daughter. He had a final question in mind. If Éomer got it right, Imrahil would have considered them betrothed immediately.

"One final question, Éomer." He studied the young man again, for a moment; he hesitated thinking it would be harsh but then seeing the confidence radiating from Éomer, Imrahil decided to adhere to his final test.

"Would you still marry Lothíriel if she is not able to bear children?"

Shock flashed across Éomer's face but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

"Yes!" No hesitation, no reluctance in the young man's answer at all.

"Very well." Imrahil gestured at him to return to the hall. "There is something else I want to show you."

* * *

><p>Éomer watched as Imrahil limped on his walking stick. His mind was still racing and his heart pounding when the Imrahil's last question haunted his thoughts.<p>

Lothíriel was not able to bear children?

A cold passed his spine.

The question - it was hard, most impossible to answer. His palms were damp with cold sweat. The ruling of the Riddermark was all about heir. It might not seem too important now but if what Imrahil said was true, what should he do? Asking the cousins of his two remaining aunts? Would that work?

He knew the logical answer to Imrahil's question would be a No. But his heart told him otherwise hence his prompt answer came without second thought. Any woman could have bore him a child. But he did not love any woman. He wanted Lothíriel. And learning the fact that she was not able to produce an heir deeply pained him.

Why did it have to be so cruel? Did Lothíriel know about this?

He found the frown sitting between his brows grow deeper as he followed Imrahil back to the hall. They walked past the hallway into a small aisle and entered a room with pieces of scattered papers and parchments. Imrahil had dismissed his guards and locked the door behind them.

"Do you recognise these?" Imrahil paced around heaps of papers and pointed at some with his walking stick. "And these?"

Éomer leaned forward and picked up a few pieces. His eyes flew open as he studied them. They were all incomplete sketches or half torn drawings of a man with a helmet that a crest of horsetail flew above. The lines went only as far as the helmet, the armour and down to the horse. There were attempts at drafting out the facial feature but judging from the frustrated lines and torn pages, Lothíriel failed to produce anything that was satisfactory.

"She told me she lost a chest of her drawings. I never thought it was such a significant matter until I saw these."

Éomer just stood wordlessly as Imrahil continued.

"They are all drawings of you. The only man on the Middle-earth with a tail-horse upon his helm! For some reason, she did not manage to draw your face with perfection. I've heard her cursing, tearing away her effort and shouting at herself."

Éomer closed his eyes and listened.

"You will not find another woman who will love you as much as she does."

"I know, Imrahil!" he snapped out, tired of Imrahil's attempts to test his sincerity.

"Good. Perhaps there is one more thing that you could do for me." With that the Prince of Dol Amroth released himself from his walking stick and moved around the room.

Éomer was completely perplexed, not only that Imrahil appeared to be completely fine but also he was pretending to be disabled all this time.

"IMRAHIL!"

"Wait before you shoot any accusation, Éomer!" He lifted a hand to stop Éomer from continuing and retrieved a dart from a pocket. "Someone tried to shoot one of my guards with this, just two weeks ago. As far as I can remember, this is not of Easterling-make or Umbarian. It does not come close to any of the arrows I have seen on Pelennor Fields."

Éomer gasped a breath as he took the dart from Imrahil. It was of rough make, not fine work but still sharp enough to deliver a fatal shot.

"Dunlendish." He returned his gaze to Imrahil, still disbelieved at the cruel fact.

"Then it seems some of my fellow Belfalasians have dealings with Dunlendings. Evil dealings very likely."

There was a concern look in Imrahil's eyes that Éomer did not like. But he ought to find out what actually happened in Dol Amroth. What drove Lothíriel to leave him so suddenly.

"And your leg?"

"About three months ago, I fell ill. I became quite sick actually. Maybe Valar has mercy on me; both my daughters-in-law are practised healers. They recognised my symptoms immediately and formulated an anti-dote. I made full recovery. But knowing that _our_ unseen enemies will not give up, I decided it was wise to cloak myself to stall more time so that I could find out their plot."

"Did anyone know about this?"

"No. Not my sons. Definitely not Lothíriel. Even my daughters-in-law believed the poison did have a permanent effect on me." Imrahil walked closer to Éomer and stared into his hardened gaze. "To trick your enemy, you must first trick your friends and family. If those closest to you believe it, there is no doubt that your enemy will definitely fall for it as well."

"Have you found out who did this to you, Imrahil?"

"Not exactly. But the list of those who really want me and my family dead is fairly short, Éomer. And right now I do not know who I can trust anymore. Moral is a slipping stone nowadays. Why do you think Lothíriel brought the silverware all the way from Minas Tirith? Why do you think we are having this conversation here not at the pavilion? I am sure you have some confidence in your guess."

Éomer knew. Imrahil was suspecting there were spies. There were people whom the Prince once trusted now might turn against him. The merchant. The maid. A few names crossed Éomer's mind but he dared not draw any conclusion too early.

"Have you detected any attempt lately?"

"A few aimed at my sons. But none lately, not since we swapped every daily tool to silver, there has not been any indication of poison until the failed shot at my guard. I would like to pursue this further but my hands are bound here."

The quelling storm in Dol Amroth was more threatening than Éomer initially anticipated. The rising pressure in his chest stifled him further. Why would a Dunlending try to harm the Prince of Dol Amroth? Could it be the outlaws that he missed when he rescued Lothíriel? He did kill the henchman but there was no sign of the outlaw chief.

"Dunland is not so far from the Riddermark, if you allow me to take this matter in my own hands. I will investigate. There are some loose ends that I need to tie."

"Then Dol Amroth is once again in your debt," the old Gondorian bowed.

Now, judging from Imrahil's tone, there was no doubt that the Lord of Belfalas had this plan in mind, instead of begging for help, he managed to twitch it around and make Éomer step in to aid. He had heard Aragorn praising the Prince being incredibly wise. Now he believed every word of it even more.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Imrahil stood with a stony expression. "And when I said that Lothíriel being unable to bear children…"

A smile broke across Imrahil's face and he gave Éomer a hard squeeze. "…it was a lie."

Instantly, the tightness that had been clutching his chest released and vanished, Éomer glanced at the older man in a wave of awe and disbelief.

One says experience is the best teacher. Despite having fought and won countless battles, Éomer felt like a new recruit in front of the grey-haired Gondorian man.

Imrahil seemed satisfied with his work. Smiling again, he tapped Éomer a few times. "And you should really talk to Lothíriel about your offer. She will decide for herself."

"You think she would decline?" Now he seriously had doubt about his ability at reading people since it had just been proven that he failed miserably.

"Then make your best effort so that she can't."

Imrahil grabbed his walking stick and slipped back into his crimpled act. He wrapped his arm around the shoulders of the still stunned young Rohír. "By the way, there is an invitation to a sparring tournament tomorrow afternoon."

"Sparring tournament?"

"Yes. And you should not be surprised. The invitation comes from the Guild of Tradesmen. It looks like Saewon and his son won't let anyone off the hook."

While Éomer spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get over the various events in the morning, time went passed like wind and before he knew it, Imrahil sent a man to remind him at that he needed to attend the festive tonight.

Éomer blew a disapproving breath, knowing that he could not escape the social conference again and wondering at the same time how he should asked the question. He was not a man of many words. He did not have a capable tongue or know any flourished speech. As he took his time to formulate his approach, the sky drew the evening veil. The party had started.

* * *

><p>The guests started pouring into the Great Hall of Dol Amroth. Neatly arranged seats were taken up quickly. Laughters of proud parents and their children drowned the hard effort of the minstrels and harpers. Her father smiled at her as Lothíriel entered. The smile on his face was something tonight. Her father had not had that smile for many years. He let out another loud laugh as he shared a word with a tall, blond man standing next to him. When her father shifted his glance to her, Éomer turned.<p>

Lothíriel found her breath stalled.

Dimples flashing, the King of Rohan grinned, shooting a sparkling of aura into the room. He wore his royal finery. The dark green cloak draped from his broad shoulders. His charisma took immediate effect, some noble young women nearby let out pearls of giggles.

Her father moved to her side. She threaded her arm through his, allowing him to lead her closer to the standing cluster of Horse-lords.

He placed a palm at her shoulder, urging her to move closer.

"Good evening, my Lords."

She opened her mouth, but her voice came out not as loud as she wished.

"Lothíriel, I wish that you sit next to me tonight. What say you?"

"I will be pleased, Father."

"And you, my friend, will you sit on my right?"

Éomer acknowledged Imrahil's request by lifting his wine glass.

She could tell there was this renewed bliss in her father's voice. The formality she sensed when the Rohirrim first arrived had disappeared.

The viols stopped and her eldest brother, Elphir announced that everyone to be seated and that dinner would begin soon.

Lothírel swallowed, hoping the blockage in her throat would go away. She never felt this nervous. Not only that Éomer's endlessly emerald irises were locked on her but also having her father in between them while they sat facing each other was the last thing she wished.

Her stomach, still knotted, did not allow her to digest dinner. She ate very little. Every time she lifted her gaze—to pat the linen napkin at her lips or take a sip of water—Éomer's intense gaze pinned her to her seat. Nerves tied her muscles into unresponsive bundles.

She did not even know what was being said, only catching scattered sentences that lingered about breeding horses.

As plates being taken away and desserts made their ends on the dining tables, Imrahil set down his cup, gesturing his firm chin at a birchwood harp. "Lothíriel, would you play a song for our guests?"

Her lips pulled back into a stiff smile. She leaned forward, frowning. "Father, you know I have not played harp for many years. And besides, there are so many good harpers here tonight. I don't wish to embarrass you or myself!"

"You should have more confidence in yourself, young lady! Go and show us!" Imrahil's face gleamed, ignoring her protest.

A dense silence followed as the whole table waited for her to obey her father's wish. Lothíriel was sure her pounding heart could be heard over the thickening air. It was very unlike of her father to push her out in the public. Right now, she felt no more like a fish splayed on a work top for vivisecting by a novice.

She bit her lip, laying down a spoon. She rose on to her feet and forced herself to walk over to the dais where the musical instruments sat. She did not understand her father at all tonight.

She greeted the fellow musicians with a weak smile and exchanged a few words. She breathed some air and took a seat behind a large harp. There was only one ballad that she was certain it would not embarrass her father.

She looked up as she adjusted her posture, and saw Éomer's curious gaze skipped from her father to her.

She lowered her head and returned her attention onto the harp in front of her.

Her fingers were shaky but she forced herself to calm her breathing. Deep breaths rolled in and out until she had the courage to lift a finger and trace the array of strings. In spite of fears, the melody echoed inside, crying out from within the core of her soul. The notes like memory, billowing, wave after wave, it shocked her that she could still remember them so well.

The tunes drowned all the chattering. The harmonious strain flowing under her fingers sent the hall silent. She had not been this enthused with harps since her mother passed away. Each cell within her bubbled and burst with mingle of joy, remembered grieve and nostalgia, of relief from the overbearing attention focused on her.

Fighting back the memory, she pulled a last chord to finish her note. She shifted her gaze and looked ahead. Some old serving maids stood still, stunned by her performance. She could understand why – that song had not been played in Dol Amroth for very long time. She broke an embarrassingly weak grin and gestured at her fellow musicians to continue the entertainment. She hurried to meet her father who was walking toward her with Éomer next to him.

"I did not know you still remember that song, Lothíriel."

There was a hint of bitter sadness in his voice.

"How could I forget, Father? It is Mother's song."

She breathed out and settled her sweeping gaze back on the two men in front of her. For the first time, she thought she saw true glitter in her father's eyes. He took her hands and extended them to Éomer. "I am sure King Éomer would appreciate your company tonight."

Her eyes flashed immediately back to her father. He just gestured at the guests behind who had flown onto the dance floor.

"Enjoy your evening." Imrahil gave a brief nod and left.

He was letting them alone? Lothíriel frowned, chewing her lip, puzzled by her father's action.

"Should we?" Éomer started toward her, his gait as confident as ever.

Still stunned, she let him take the lead and swayed their way through other dancing pairs.

"Why are you so nervous? You were not yesterday on the ship or this morning."

She felt his strong arm wrap around her waist, locking her in his iron grip.

"I don't know."

The memory of their first dance in Minas Tirith came back rushing like old stories. So similar. Was it that time she fell for him?

"Are you not well?"

"No."

His piercing gaze was so tight on her face, she had to look away. His burning touch on her back sent a fluttering through her spine. It had been long since they were such close proximity with each other.

As her eyes swept across the room, she recognised some people that she never wished to see again – Saewon and his son, Glavror.

Exactly the same when she was in Minas Tirith. She hated them. She was almost certain it was impossible for them not to have any connection with the attempted poisoning of her family.

She missed her steps and her whole body stiffened up. She could feel she was dragging her feet along. Her trembling fingers dug into the hardened leather of Éomer's shoulder plates.

"I am here, Lothíriel. They cannot do anything to you." A rich and dark voice rang above her.

She tried to focus on her steps and blinked away the anxiety but her effort bore no fruit. Her teeth were grinding and her jaws were so tight that they hurt her.

"Follow me," he said again with a more reassuring tone. He led them away from the crowd and to the outer balcony where some of the Riders were. They shifted a little further away when they spotted the pair.

He released her from his clasp and let her catch some air to replenish the aggravated depletion in her lungs.

She grabbed on a balustrade to calm her bated breaths.

"Why didn't you tell me about Dol Amroth? About what happened to your father and your family?"

She turned around swiftly. Surprised that he knew about it.

"Imrahil told me everything this morning." He took a step closer. "I would have been able to help."

"How? Gondor has already owed too much of Rohan! Far beyond what we could repay for the next thousands of years!"

She looked away, setting her gaze on the dark, silent ocean.

"But this is not about Gondor! This is about you and your family."

"And you have done more than enough, offering me a roof for all those months."

"Is it not too heavy to bear all these alone? Having to live every day with nobody to share your burden?"

"It is." Admitting, she turned around, resting her back against a beam, "it has been too tiring to stay alert all the times, not knowing whom to trust, not being able to tell between friends and foes. I am heart-broken to see greed corrupting every corner of Dol Amroth. It is my home and I can't save her!"

"That is why I am here. I will help you and your father. You don't have to fight this battle alone!" He slipped out of Westron and replied in Rohirric.

"Have you not heard me? The Riddermark has done her fair share in helping Gondor. And you should not been here! You should be back in Edoras, tending your people-" She followed his suit and resumed their conversation in his tongue. He did not belong here. As much as she wanted to see him, Dol Amroth was dangerous. She feared for him. If someone could try to poison her father, what else could they do to the Horse-lords?

"Lothíriel, could you just stop and listen to me for a moment?" He cut her off harshly, knowing she won't stop if he did not insist.

Startled by his loud voice, she just stood quietly and nodded. She watched as he bit his lip and rubbed his temple as if he did not know where to begin.

"I am not as iterated as your father or your brothers. I spent all my life in the plains with no lavish stronghold or tall marble keep. I am a rough man who devotes most of his time to horses. I am used to horseflies and muck, not tidy and clean like your countrymen. I am loud, grumpy, scruffy, unkempt and not always polite. I don't come from the high society like the Men of Gondor. I don't know any flowery words but I know all I want is…"

Lothíriel was confused at Éomer who backed and stopped inches away from her in the midst of his long strange self statement and the last unfinished line. She saw the frustration that lingered in his eyes. She moved a little closer, studying him. What was with him tonight? As odd as her father had been. What had they actually talked about in the morning?

"What do you want? What is it?" She probed.

"...is..."

"Is what?" She asked again. It was unusual to see Éomer being so tongue-tied and doubtful in his speech.

"…is never to leave you."

For a moment, she could not speak. Listening to the echo in her head, feeling waves of emotion lightly stroking her heart, she moved backward and looked at him wide-eyed.

He stepped closer to her and took her hands in his, staring at her. His voice rang again in her ears.

"I cannot offer you luxury or huge ford, but I can give you a land of grazing where men, women, children and horses roam free, where the grasses stay green even in winter. Will you return to feed the horses, to take care of the children, to cook in the kitchen, to collect chicken eggs, to harvest the hay or to thatch the roof? Life has never been easy in the Riddermark. The weather is harsh and the wind is cold. There are no fish or ships. No charming sea. Would you still want to go back and spend your life there, with me… as nothing else but…the Lady of the King, the Queen of the Riddermark… as my wife?"

The last three words came out soft, slow and clear. They were roaring and rewinding in her ears.

This was unexpected.

Her breathing was out of rhythm. A sour lump stirred in her throat. The corners of her lips twitched uncontrollably and moist crept silently into her eyes. She lifted a hand to touch his bearded face. Tenderness and fondness leaked between her fingers.

"I am a not princess, I don't ne…"she lifted a hand to her mouth as the rest of her words were lost in her throat. She lowered her head hoping to gain some control over herself but couldn't.

She still gasped involuntarily. Chills continued to run up and down her spine. There was trail of tingling around her eyes, her head, and the back of her neck but at the same time a quick flow of warmth gushed out from within her.

"You may not be a princess but you are the queen of my people." His finger slid beneath her chin, pushing it up gently and forcing her to look at him as he spoke again, "Lothíriel, you complete me."

The floodgates crashed open.

She buried herself in his chest, wrapping her arms around him as tight as it could be.

"Ye..s...I..." Weeps turned into silent sobs.

This was a moment of surreal, of timelessness that drew her out of the world-driven thoughts. She forgot all the hesitations and fear; she cared not about discretion or composure. Everything felt so serene and transformed.

She had finally found her own safe harbour.

**TBC**

**The Rohirrims' reaction.**

**The sparring tournament.**

**Lothíriel's first test at protecting her men.**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Footnotes<span>**:

The geographical feature of Dol Amroth is based upon the Cliff of Moher, Welsh shores and various castles/fords in UK.

_**Ospreys, puffins and piew waterfowls**_: They are all British seabirds.

**_Dried plum_**: A sweet and salty snack in China (which probably dated back to years prior to B.C.) consumed to suppress nausea effect among travel-sickies and pregnant women.

**_Silver_**: (metal, Ag)Used in ancient Chinese and Korean dynasties as a tool to detect poison, mainly arsenic sulphuric.

_**Amor Vincit Omnia**_ (latin) literally means **_Love Conquers All_**.

As pointed out by one of my long time reader, the songs that have helped me to shape this chapter (which also make me teary) are:

1. I Loved Her First (by American country band, Heartland) - one of the best father/son-in-law song.

2. Who'd You Be Today (by American country artist, Kenney Chesney) - a song to remember those that are gone from our lives

**_Once again a big thank you to all the reviewers and readers! This is a long chapter (over 10k words!)! I won't be updating for another week or so as I really have alot to finish in real life! I hope you all find this chapter more rewarding than ever. Do leave any reviews even if it is just about my spelling or grammatical error! _**

**_*tips hat and bows*_**


	30. Metal and Mettle

_**Writ of Shadows and Phantoms**_

**_Chapter 30: Metal and Mettle  
><em>**

* * *

><p>She felt his large hand stroking her back. His scent swirled around her. There was no place safer than being in his arms.<p>

"Don't shut me out, let me help, let me be the shoulders that you need to cry on. Let me be the person that hears your silent sobs."

She lifted her head and looked up at him. Tenderness pooled in his eyes.

Her nose wrinkled and red from the emotions, her chin quivering, she put a hand on his chest underneath which his heart beat.

She swallowed to gather her wit and asked in Westron. "Is it because of my father that you are obligated to take me as your wife?"

Not seemed to have been bothered by her change of speech, his hand reached on hers resting on his chest and clamped it tight. He looked at her, green flames that pierced through her soul.

"No. I made the proposal. Imrahil said only you could decide if you wanted to give your consent."

She continued to behold him, compassion and love overflowing from her eyes.

"You never truly smile. Can you smile for me?"

A moment of bewilderment made a quick landing on his bearded face but the corners of his lips soon curled up, dimples flashing beneath the hilled up cheekbones. If look could kill, she believed many ladies present tonight would have swooned upon seeing his brightened up expression.

"Do you know I've always adored you?" she ran an index finger along his bearded jaw line.

"Yes."

Of course, he knew.

_**He had always known.**_

He felt her smaller hands cupping his face, and saw his own reflection in her glittering grey eyes. He only detected that his guards had obstructed the entrance to the balcony where they were standing now for some time, probably to shield them both from the curious crowd who had been peeking, but he was not bothered.

Her red lips carried a dark shade of crimson under the warm dim.

"Ic lufie þe, Éomer."

His eyes widened.

This woman whom drove him mad.

This woman whom had gone against his will more than once.

This woman whom was as stubborn as a donkey and would not bow even when threatened with death.

This woman whom he had used to see every morning, every day and who had carved her existence into every nerve in his body.

This woman whom his people had regarded as their queen.

This woman who held no reservation at all when declaring her love for him.

This woman whom would be his Queen.

He pulled her close and completely against his huge frame. Holding her chin up, he leaned forward and kissed her.

She furled her arms around his neck and replied with an equal response.

Their kiss was different this time. It was more than passion that it sang. There was love and there was devotion.

* * *

><p>Just a few moments earlier.<p>

Éothain signalled at his knights - The Royal Guards at the entrance stepped at the door and formed a wall, blocking the view of the guests from inside the hall.

Their King and future Queen indulged in their own world.

The trio and not really surprisingly Hereswið as well, became overly concerned with the well-being of their King, had snuggled up at a corner at the end of the terrace. It was not hard to read their animated faces which were drowned in the sea of joy and anticipation when they saw their King finally making his move.

All three pairs of eyes were darting between their King and the Lady of Dol Amroth.

"You know, we should not be doing this. This is not right," Édhere remained hesitant with their action.

"What is not right?" Asked Éothain whose eyes had not left his King for a single second.

"Peeking! We are peeking King Éomer, my dear Captain! This can't be right!"

"It is not a crime to look at and check on your King, may I remind you!" The former handmaiden of Éowyn tried to justify their action. And, of course, her opinion was quickly seconded by the Captain.

"We are not peeking! We are just ensuring the future of the Riddermark and -!" Éothain failed to finish his sentence when he saw the first subject of interest took the hands of the second subject of interest, he exclaimed, grabbing the shoulders of one of his comrades and shaking them, "He is taking her hands! What is he saying to her? Quick! Tell us!"

The poor shaken comrade, which happened to be Stán, frowned and was a little annoyed by his impatience demonstrated by his superior. Despite the most timid among all three, Stán exhibited a superior skill that proved very useful at odd occasions, one such as this. "Stop, I am trying here! If you keep pushing, I cannot concentrate enough to read their lips!"

But his friends took no notice of his complaints. With their heads tilted at the direction at which their King was standing, instead they went on.

"Is he going to ask her?"

"Is he asking her?"

"Has he asked her?"

"Tell us!" Éothain gave his man another elbow rub at his rib.

"Hold on, would you three please? I only managed to catch a few words…" Stán finally understood why his King sometimes described them as a hopeless bunch of under-grown adults.

"What words? What did he say?"

"Last three words from Éomer King. Something about 'as my wife'…"

"Hurray! He has asked her! He has asked her!" The Captain's face brightened up immediately. His King was not so gormless after all.

"And what did she say?" Came the demand for the most important answer.

"Well hmmm..."

"What did she say?"

"I think she said..."

"Said what?"

"I think she said 'yes'...I suppose, I could not catch it, she was kind of sobbing, you know..."

"What do you mean 'I suppose'? Did you know read what she said?"

"She has half of her face buried in his chest. If you think I could read what she was saying, you seriously need another lip-reader, Captain!"

"Shhh, both of you! The most exciting part is coming," Hereswið waved in front of the two riders and returned their attention to the subjects of interest. "He is going to...KISS HER! He is KISSING her!"

The three men watched with overwhelming shock, sharing their silence with opened mouth and widened eyes - their King had never ever kissed any woman in public.

"The future of our people is secured. Our land is so blessed. How touching! I want to cry!" said the Captain, wiping off an imaginary tear off the corner of his eyes.

"How pretentious!" Their female companion teased.

"Listen, woman! I am not pretentious! And, where are you going, Stán?"

The young man stopped, turned around and sighed. "I am going to write a letter to Lord Gamling. I thought he ought to know about the news."

"Oh yes! Of course! Can you perhaps add another agenda in your letter as well?"

"What do you wish to tell him, Captain?"

"Wedding dress, Stán. A wedding dress for The Queen!"

Any news, either good or bad, spread like wildfire. Before midnight, all the Riders knew the Riddermark would soon have a queen.

* * *

><p>The morning came. The air was misty but the ray of lights began seeping through the breaking clouds.<p>

Lothíriel sat in front of a mirror. She was still trying to comprehend and digest the event last night. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, Éomer showed no strong emotion toward their relationship and that he suddenly proposed and that she had accepted without any second thought. But she felt it was too soon. There was an uneasy and unexplained feeling that had been haunting her since last night. A coil of shadow was lurking from somewhere and spreading its claws quickly. There would still be a battle awaiting her before everything was done and dusted.

Nothing came too easily for both of them.

It never had.

She was welcomed with the surprise appearance of Éomer, standing among the attendees at the breakfast table. Laughter and giggles rang in the hall. Her sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews and aunts were sharing a laugh with her betrothed. More precisely, Éomer was going to have breakfast with her family. To her best knowledge and as far as she could remember her father was yet to make an official announcement of her betrothal to Éomer, which by principle, should have happened last night before the party ended but it did not, but instead being invited to have breakfast with her immediate family. Her father was a man known to keeping family matters very private. The fact that she was seeing Éomer among the standing crowd could only mean one thing: Her father had already accepted Éomer as a member of their family regardless.

Breakfast proceeded as usual as it could possibly be but Lothíriel did get a few funny and teasing looks from her sisters-in-law, her elderly aunts and Amrothos' bride-to-be. By the time they all finished, her father had already left the table. Knowing that she could not hold herself under the questioning of her aunts, she quickly excused herself after making sure that Éomer was kept occupied with a three year old Alphos who suddenly became very interested in horses.

She went out to the garden searching for her father.

There he was, standing in front of her mother's statue. His wrinkled fingers on her ever smooth, cold marble white cheek.

She hurried toward him and called out, "Ada!"

He turned around to greet her, giving the most gentle smile she could remember.

"I..." Then her tongue was tied. Head lowered, she did not know how to begin.

Imrahil arched a questioning eyebrow at his youngest.

Struggling to push the sour sting in her throat down, she began slowly, "...I just want to say thank you...for everything..."

A large hand wrapped over her smaller one. It was warm and still strong.

"You made the decision, Lothíriel, not me. There is nothing you need to thank me for."

No. That was not true. She had more than a thousand reasons to thank him. Her father had always been there for her. And soon this role would be replaced by another man. The feeling of loss was indescrible. It was painful. It arched her to think she was walking away from her family. She was leaving them. It felt like a betrayal.

"I...I am so sorry, Ada. So sorry to have brought all these troubles onto you, onto our family...I am so sorry that I have been such a wilful child, that I never obey your wish..."

"Lothíriel, listen..." The large hands that once held her in the frightening thundery nights were now on her shoulders. "Éomer will be your husband and you will be his wife but nothing will change the bond we have. You will always be my child. You will always be Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Imrahil. I am and will always be your father, my love."

Her eyes started stinging with tears, even before her father opened his mouth. His words just burst the dam of emotion she was trying hard to hold back. Drips of moist glid down her cheeks.

"Please forgive me, Ada! Forgive me for being rude to you, for shouting at you, for disobeying you, for questioning your decisions, for..." Sobs choked her throat and she lost her voice, sobbing in the arms of the man who swore to protect her from the moment she was born.

"Sor...ry and...th..ank..you, Ada..." It was all she could repeat.

By the time she recovered from her emotional morning, it was already after lunch. She did not join the company at the dining table but chose to stay in her chamber to calm herself. There was other matter that she needed to see to.

The tournament would begin in less than in an hour.

She must see Éomer. The worry inside her deepened as she quickened her steps down the corridor leading to his quarter. The door was left ajar. As she approached, she could hear Éomer talking to his captain whilst in the background the sound of chinking rang.

"Good afternoon, my Lords," she knocked lightly at the door and bowed.

They both turned to her. It seemed Éothain was helping Éomer with his armour.

"Good afternoon, my Lady," Éothain returned her greeting with a wide grin.

"Good afternoon, Lothíriel."

Even though they were now betrothed to each other, sometimes she still found herself shying away from his piercing glare. She responded with an embarrassed smile and walked toward them.

She needed to do something. She could not just stand there and speak to Éomer with nothing to occupy herself. Armour! The armour!

"I could help you with your armour, if you don't mind, my Lord," she offered.

The young captain stepped aside and bowed, "Thank you, my Lady. I shall leave this task with you."

She replied with another embarrassed smile. If it was anyone else other than Éothain, it would have been very rude to interrupt.

Still smiling, the younger rider gave a wink before taking his leave. "I shall see you later, my King and...my Queen." And he shot off like a horse with a whip behind.

She tried to retrain herself from laughing whereas her betrothed just sighed.

"He is always full of energy, isn't he?" She found herself smiling as she lifted the chest plate from the wooden armour stand nearby.

"He is more than a handful. Sometimes I wonder if he had too much horse pucky when he was young."

"Don't say that. He is one fine horselord and captain." Her fingers busied with the buckles on the side of his chestplate. She pulled the leather straps and ran them through the buckles, and pulled them again to tighten them before finally tucking them back beneath the buckles to secure the loose ends.

"I know."

She sensed the change in his mood. She looked up and saw the green shade in his eyes darkened.

"Fear the goat from the front, the horse from the back and man from all sides. Be careful of their dirty tricks." Staring into his eyes, she warned in a stern voice.

"They cannot harm me."

There was hint arrogance in his over confident tone that she did not like.

"They will and they will keep trying! They are cunning and calculative!"

Slight anger flickered in her voice as she tried to convince him not to underestimate their opponents.

"I understand why you are worried but I will not let that happen, Lothiriel. They will not be able to harm me!"

Annoyance began to seep into his voice.

"I trust you, Éomer but I don't trust them! I"

He suddenly grabbed her arms and locked his eyes with hers. It was enough to shock her, to wake her up from the troubling worry, to remind her again that he was not only her betrothed but also an experienced and seasoned warrior.

"Lothíriel, I promise every man, woman and child that there will not be another fatherless child or widow in the Riddermark after Sauron was defeated. I have and will always keep that promise. Have faith in me."

Her widened pupils returned to their normal form. The pre-cast fear began ebbing away.

"Trust your man, Lothíriel. Trust me," his tone softened.

Her pre-cast fear began ebbing away. It was all she needed. A promise.

"Just be careful, Éomer," she said softly as she finished fastening the last buckle on his gauntlet.

"You too. Carry your weapon and take Édhere with you to the balcony."

His gloved thumb brushed her lower lip lightly. His gaze lingered on her face for a short moment before turning around to pick his sword.

As advised by her betrothed, she went back to her chamber to pick up a weapon. Édhere kindly offered to carry the items for her after he managed to convince her that it would look less suspicious if it were a guard who bore all the weapons. By the time they arrived at the balcony, it was only a quarter of an hour before the tournament and the seat the lower circle were already filled. Lothíriel signalled at Édhere to move to the upper circle. The lower circle was less than three feet higher than the tournament field but did not provide a good view as the upper circle did. The height of the upper circle would certainly give her the advantage in case anything unexpected happened.

She picked a seat closest to the edge which overlooked a fire-pit sitting in the centre of the tournament field. She smiled, knowing this was just enough to bring everything or everyone into her sight.

She scanned among the crowd looking for the man in the brownish red armour. It did not take long before she saw him. There was hard glitter in his eyes. He too was eyeing at their opponent cautiously.

There were many people, perhaps too many. Mostly whom she did not know or recognise. Strangers that stood around Saewon were particularly different. Their clothes were rough and stained with sot. Their faces were pierced with studs and rings. They all had strange weapons in their hands. The blades looked heavier than normal short swords, making the centre of percussion further forward in the handle. The blades were also beveled in a more obtuse fashion. Her heart leaped while her eyes were fixed on these weapons. She knew why the blades were forged this way.

These blades were designed to deliver a fatal blow.

Even from the first attack.

But something was amiss here. Glavror was not among the crowd. There was a sudden sting within her that he must be up to something and she was right.

"Lady Lothíriel!" A shout from behind brought no surprises. It was spoken in a Belfalasian accent and who else could it be.

Glavror.

She bit her tongue, cursing within that her wishful thinking just came true. Not in the most pleasant manner.

"What are you doing here?" Her tone was colder than she thought. She regarded the short grinning man at the entrance of the upper circle with great caution; her eyes never left him especially when she saw he had a sword in his right hand. Sheathed but she did not trust him.

Édhere immediately gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it if the dark-haired man stepped a little too close to them.

"Leave it with me, Édhere," she spoke in Rohirric, extending her arm to stop the young Rohir.

"But, my Lady-"

"I can handle him. He is nothing but a sabertooth without teeth."

She took a few steps ahead, greeting the uninvited guest, "What a surprise to see you, Glavror!"

"What? No warm greetings to welcome an old friend? I'd missed you every day and was so heartbroken when you refused to see me after you returned from Rohan! I still think about you! I still want you to be my wife so much, Lothíriel, don't you know? Come back to me and I will forgive everything that has happened between us. Things will be better Dol Amroth! I meant only good, my beauty. You have to trust me. My heart is yours and we belong to each other."

Unaffected by his eloquence, she smirked at him, "the great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one's real and one's declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink." She paused and stared at him, "You ARE disgusting."

"You have become very rude, Lothíriel, ever since you returned from that land of barbarians! "He laughed and walked toward her, throwing a disdainful look at her bodyguard and murmuring something in Sindarin not very loud but she was close enough to catch it.

"Who are you calling filthy dog, Glavror!"

"Oh, I am sorry! I thought you did not understand Sindarin, Lothíriel!" He faked a surprised face, with his fat hand almost covering his mouth.

"You thought, that is why. You assumed too much, too. That is not very good to your tiny little brain."

"It is still better than living with a bunch of barbigerous, equivorous, and uncivilised bots."

"Living with them is better than living with a witticaster who does nothing useful other than gadding around idly and picking on those he thought were weaker than him."

"Ah, I see your tongue is still as sharp as ever."

Another attempt to disparage her.

She kept her eyes on him as he circled around in front of her.

"I am sure you are hoping your horse friends would win the tournament, Lothíriel."

She just looked at him silently, lips shut.

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Lothíriel. Your friends are nothing but brutes with swords and empty heads; they could never win the mighty warriors of my father's!"

"Warriors? I thought they were given a better name: Mercenaries. Oh, maybe, wait, aren't they better known as pirates? Your family never fails to surprise me, Glavror. I did not expect you would get so low to hire the criminals who robbed your ships to compete in this tournament. You truly have no pride."

Her tone was absessive of her usual temper and was shockingly calm.

"You-!" Not expecting such an insult, the man's face flashed red. Her words had left him embarrassingly speechless and of course, angry.

Gritting his teeth, he drew his sword out. The tip of the blade was just a few inches from her face.

Bright and new. Probably never been used before.

"My Lady!"

"Step back, Edhere!" She shouted in Rohirric. She could see the sword in the Rohir's hand was unsheathed half its length. If Edhere had drawn his sword, she was certain that Glavror would have twisted the encounter to his advantage, not by combat but by that deceitful mouth of his.

She took another few steps ahead, forcing the shaky sword tip to retreat a few paces.

"I will kill you, swine!"

It should have sounded like a threat but it did not. It came out as a weak bark.

Knowing his cowardly nature, she braved herself to take another step closer.

His hands were shaking even more violently.

She would never back down from facing Saewon and his sons now. The fear was no longer haunting her. She needed to be strong. For herself. For her family. For the people of Dol Amroth and Rohan.

"The next time you raise your sword at me or my people, will be the last time you could lift anything, Glavror. Remember that."

"You! You will pay, Lothíriel! You will pay, I swear!"

Mortified by his spineless display, panic crept out of his squeaky tone. He moved backward, threw her another furious looking before curling up his tail, and left.

"My Lady, we can't just let him off! He was threatening you!" The young rider had been growing impatient from the beginning. "I have to get him-"

"Edhere, let him be. He is just a puppet of his father's."

* * *

><p>Over at the patio, flying ashes from the fire pit swirled and lost their spark. Cracking noises of the woods deepened the invisible tension hanging in the air.<p>

Éomer and his Riders stood at one end of the field. Saewon sat in his fur arm chair, sipping some kir from a gem-embossed wine glass in his right hand.

Imrahil positioned himself between the two parties. He too noticed the huge group of foreigners around Saewoon. They were not Belfalasians. They were too rough and muscular. Their dark skin was good evidence that these people probably spent most of their time outdoor, perhaps in the sea. He shifted uncomfortably and shot Éomer a look. The King of Rohan seemed not at all agitated. His posture was calm and confident. Occasionally he would exchange a few words with his Riders but that was all.

The Master of Ceremony stepped in and announced the start of tournament with a loud whistle.

There it drew the curtains - the prologue of a battle that ultimately led to a painful defeat of one party.

Normally the heat would only build up after a few rounds but loud cheering from the overly excited crowd drowned even the sound of the whipping ocean. The participants in the field grew more impatient with each clash of weapons. There were winners and of course losers but the battle as one might call it, was too close to call. It was a draw. It was not a result that everyone had hoped for.

Both leaders eyed the match closely. Smile faded from the face of one of the taller men. He stood up abruptly. Wine still dripping from the corner of his mouth, he unsheathed a strange weapon and strode purposefully up to the middle of the field. He inspected the crowd with his squeezed eyes. It was the eyes of a predator. In the mid of his stare, children stopped cheering and hid behind the adults. Some crowd, turning their faces aside, avoided looking at him.

The studs and jewelry on his painted bare chest clanked as he walked. He took another few steps and came in front of Éomer. Pointing his weapon at the Horse-lord, in a loud and clear voice, he spoke in a demanding but confident tone, "I, Breged, Lord of the Sea, of Belfalas, challenge you to a duel!

There were some instant gasps from the crowd. To openly challenge a leader of another country was not a custom in Dol Amroth.

Imrahil almost stood up. His gesture was disapproving but before he could stop it, the King of Rohan had accepted the changelle.

"Challenge accepted." Éomer's clear voice echoed in the deafening silence.

Éomer lifted his head and stared up at the nose-flaring man in front of him. He had anticipated this moment would come. Taking his helmet, he rose to his full height. Another series of gasps followed. The foreign warrior who seemingly appeared taller than anyone else was in fact a few inches shorter than the Horse-lord.

The Riders noticed a distinct disadvantage at this instance. The foreign warrior was very broad and he looked at least ten stones heavier than their King.

At a distance, in the upper circle of the balcony, a slender figure dashed forward.

Bow in her hand, Lothíriel found herself teetering on the precipitous edge between sanity and hysteria.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:<strong>

Gosh, my last update was April 2012! 14 months ago! I hope the majority of my readers have not forgotten this story!

First, please accept my sincere apology for such a long delay. Much has happened since April 2012:

1. Submitted my thesis in June, passed my Viva in October, waited for the correct for 4 months, finally submitted the corrected thesis in March 2013 - this was such a painful process!

2. Started my new job in July 2012, was sent to attend various training courses for a few times, started to work on my own projects since.

3. Family issue in October but could not go home, crashed our car in an accident just before Christmas and all those legal stuff that followed after! And finally visited my parents in Jan/Feb 2013.

4. Will be graduating this July :D

But I am glad that I now find the time to complete this chapter. There will be more to follow!

PLUS, a big thank you and hug to **cCeret**, **BrightWatcher** and **b5delenn** who continue to show me their support during my absence from FF. I hope this chapter has quenched your 1-year old thirst!

Note:

_**Breged**_ means _violence_ in Sindarin.


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